


The Circle of Traitors

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Caning, Canon Divergence, Captain Athos, Collars, Dramatic Irony, Established Relationship, Faked Death, Heretic's fork, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mourning, Roman Catholicism, Spoilers for Series 2, Super-spy Aramis, Torture (physical and mental), Vargas has a humiliation kink, bastinado
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 98,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>After Richelieu had died, he awoke in a world of filtered colours, no sound, and no life.</i><br/> </p><p>Cardinal Richelieu is dead. Treville buried him. He watched him die.</p><p>When the musketeers learn that Richelieu might still be alive, held in a Spanish prison, they set out on a rescue mission. But how can Treville trust the musketeers to bring their old enemy home alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [lest ye be judged](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669933) by [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele). 
  * Inspired by [no peace to the sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033482) by [be_cum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_cum/pseuds/be_cum). 



> Many thanks to theonenamedafterahat for her excellent beta-work! Without her this fic would be stuck in Limbo.
> 
> So here's my attempt at another Richelieu-lives!fic, this time of the Richelieu-in-a-Spanish-prison variety. (Kudos to kyele who created this sub-genre!) 
> 
> The title is a reference to Dante's Divine Comedy, which inspired some of the imagery throughout the fic (thanks to be_cum for demonstrating what a perfect intertext Dante makes for Treville/Richelieu fic). In the Comedy Hell is divided into nine circles. In the last, lowest circle souls are punished for the sin of treason.
> 
> Best of all, this fic sits completely written on my hard-drive, so you can expect updates regularly.

_These wretches have no hope of truly dying,_  
_And this blind life they lead is so abject_  
_It makes them envy every other fate._  
_The world will not record their having been there;_  
_Heaven's mercy and its justice turn from them._  
_Let's not discuss them; look and pass them by._

(from Dante's _Divine Comedy_ , Inferno, Canto III) 

 

_Still on the lofty battlement, a voice_  
_Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest._  
_Take good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads_  
_Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd,_  
_And saw before and underneath my feet_  
_A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd_  
_To glass than water._

(Inferno, Canto XXXII)

  


* * *

  


It would have been a lie to say death was unexpected. 

Richelieu was no stranger to her herald, sickness. It had been waiting on his doorstep for as long as he could remember. He'd always viewed his poor health as a God-given reminder of his human frailty. A bridle to tether the exceptional strength of his mind. How much more would he have accomplished in this life, if great bouts of mental activity hadn't been paid for by crippling headaches and a feverish exhaustion?

Therefore, it was anger he felt more than apprehension when he fell ill after delicate talks with a Swedish diplomat about the Swedes' conquests in Germany had kept him on a sleepless edge for days. It started with a dizzy spell and weakness in his legs. As time progressed these were joined by pains in his joints and abdomen that forced him to lie down for large parts of the day. The pain was annoying, but he could still sign forms, dictate letters and receive petitioners from his sickbed.

Only when his physicians insisted that he shouldn't; only when his fingers refused to hold a quill straight – only then did the thought enter his mind that _this_ might be the ultimate triumph of his body over his mind.

His doctors had soon suggested that he should make sure his affairs were in order. Richelieu had dismissed them. But even the royal physician, ordered to take a look by the fretful king, shared their diagnosis: The Cardinal was dying.

Richelieu finally agreed with the doctors when it became apparent to him that he wouldn't be leaving his sickbed ever again; not even to piss.

Death had finally gained entrance to the Palais Cardinal.

Only Treville remained hopeful. He came to Richelieu as often as he could manage, under the guise of discussing state business. But none of Richelieu's writers were ever present for these meetings, and their discussion soon turned to less official matters.

Whenever Richelieu felt too weak to talk, or when the claws of pain threatened to drag his mind under, Treville would bring up an agenda he thought Richelieu should adopt in the new year, or suggest improvements for the rooms in the new east wing of the Palais. They both knew that all construction work had stopped the day Richelieu had become bedridden. 

He could not distract Richelieu from the fact that they never once argued.

Richelieu didn't know which of them Treville thought he was protecting by pretending he didn't know Richelieu was dying.

Treville kept up his façade of bravery until the day Richelieu's chief physician decided would be his last. 

Arrangements had been made for the Cardinal to sign his last will and to give his last orders. His confessor had been on hand to perform the last rites, and the King had been granted one last audience. 

Treville returned to the Palais in the evening of that final day, and even though his sight was failing him by then Richelieu could tell that Treville's attitude had changed. Once seated at his bedside, the Captain had begun their conversation by asking Richelieu's advice – by pretending to worry about Louis' hold on the throne once his best advisor was gone. 

Richelieu barely felt the strength within him to keep up a conversation, but he made an effort. Treville was the only one he could trust to keep the kingdom on the path he'd set for it. 

His eyes grew misty as he forced words of reassurance out on each shallow breath.

After that, Treville's air of stoicism evaporated quickly. He told Richelieu he hardly knew how he was supposed to comfort the King once the Cardinal was gone. How he believed that Louis could never be satisfied with anyone who replaced his favourite advisor. His voice faltered then, as Treville found no meaningful words to fill the growing silence.

Richelieu found Treville's hand resting on the edge of the mattress and covered it with his own. He would not shy from intimacy now; not hours, perhaps even minutes from meeting his maker. Even though Richelieu would readily admit that he had neglected some of the virtues in his life, he had never believed that this particular sin was mortal. If he was damned for it, there was nothing Richelieu could do change his fate, for to redeem oneself from a sin one had to regret it.

Feeling his other senses weakening along with his body, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of Treville's fingers curling around his own.

They sat together for a while, in the silence that had fallen over the once-busy Palais Cardinal. As pain robbed him of his voice and spasms shook him, Treville remained by his side, watching him, drinking in his image as if he meant to make it last forever. Richelieu longed to do the same, but it became increasingly hard to open his eyes. 

He wanted to tell Treville, but words had abandoned him. Treville understood anyway. 

It was almost time. Treville would call the chief physician to check on him, and Richelieu would ask the doctor to call his confessor.

Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to. 

Treville stood up, placing his free hand upon their intertwined fingers, and bent down for their final kiss, unafraid of Richelieu's sickness or the taste of the grave.

That kiss was different from all those they had shared before – it was gentle, bereft of desire. It stripped away all the fetters that ethics and politics had placed on their relationship. It expressed exactly what was needed before the chance was lost forever. 

It expressed what could be acknowledged only under the immediate promise of death to conceal it forever.

  


* * *

  


After Richelieu had died, he awoke in a world of filtered colours, no sound, and no life. He found himself lying on his back in a world of fog that revealed no shapes to his dazed and waking mind.

Yet, there was light. 

In death, there was light.

Richelieu turned his face toward it.

This grey world was not the limbo of Catholic doctrine. It couldn't be.

Blinking into the light, Richelieu hazarded the guess that this wasn't purgatory either, despite how much he had hoped for its redeeming fires to save his soul from the damnation of hell. 

Gradually his senses returned. His surroundings filled with shades of grey that revealed the bare stonewalls walls of a chamber barely as wide as a man was tall. He could make out the rectangular frame of a door. A small window, high up in the far wall, allowed a dim light to slip into the room that did not reach all four corners. Richelieu kept staring into that light, his eyes straining, until his mind finally accepted the reality presented to him. He turned his head away. 

Even though the window was too high for him reach it without aid, and too narrow for him to force himself through, someone had thought to fit the narrow hole in the wall with iron bars. 

Richelieu sat up.

A bout of physical sickness took hold of him, forcing him to lie back down. The ill sensation mirrored the sick realisation in his mind: He was not lying down on his deathbed. 

He wanted to close his eyes against the creeping truth his surroundings revealed to him, but that same unfathomable horror kept them open, looking; there was nothing in this world of grey but the barred window and the closed door, save for the cot he lay on.

This couldn't be real – there had to be some mistake. In a moment a very sorry guard would open his cell, admitting an even sorrier prison governor, followed by a furious Musketeer Captain, who would remind the governor that the Queen had pardoned her assassin, that the King had approved the mission in Savoy, that you couldn't be arrested for failing to die.

Reaching for the blanket covering his legs, Richelieu realised with a shudder that he was still dressed in the vestments he had worn on his deathbed. Running his hands over the thin gown he noticed the abrasions around his wrists. He knew what they meant.

He moved his hands to his chest to clutch the golden cross he had worn on a necklace only to find it gone. In its absence he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his chest against the sudden chill. 

When he opened his eyes again the scenery remained unchanged – of course.

This wasn't limbo.

_This was Earth._

With a jolt Richelieu remembered how a form of consciousness had returned to him once before – after he had died and before he had woken here. But his memory refused to give up details. _There had been darkness. An impenetrable, absolute darkness, accompanied by the sounds of distant, muffled voices speaking a foreign tongue._

_Blinded by night, he had relied on his other senses. He been able to move, barely, weak from sickness, but it had been enough to allow him to feel, to touch. Thus, he had found himself confined, encased in wood, the air heavy with the sweet smells of embalming fluids. The realisation had caused him to gasp when no yell could force itself through his constricting throat. What strength he had left he had mustered to scratched at the lid of his coffin, having taken the mumbling voices for the funeral service._

_The answering shout, now ringing clear in his memory, had stopped his heart._

_"Está despierto!"_

_The coffin lid had been lifted, and the light that followed had been as blinding as the shadows._

There, the memory ended. Consciousness had abandoned Richelieu until he had awoken here, not in limbo, but in _Spain._

He remembered everything now.

Richelieu remembered the kidnappers. He remembered being weak with illness. Too weak to fight. Too weak to shout. He remembered being given a draught.

He remembered his abduction.

  


* * *

  


_After his deathbed confession Richelieu was dozing, exhausted; from speaking, from the pain, from the drugs and near-constant blood-letting, yet unable to rest his mind._

_He had not risen in three days._

_His fingers moved over the smooth beads of the rosary he clutched in his aching hands, hoping for the meditation of prayer to sooth his roaming thoughts. Despite how weary he was, despite his aching limbs that protested every movement, theology and statecraft occupied his mind, keeping him from rest._

_Only if God accepted his confession, his contrition, could Richelieu hope for His mercy._

_Richelieu closed his eyes in pain. He had sinned terribly in this life._

__The state may do _, he reminded himself,_ for the advancement of its subjects, what is considered a sinful act when committed by the individual _. He had built his life around this creed, but now that death reached for his hand, how could he be sure the heavenly gatekeeper agreed?_

_Would the judge of the dead find him filled with God's mercy, or filled with evil?_

_Soldiers, politicians, spies and noblemen – spectres of the dead marched in front of Richelieu's eyes, asking the same question. Of what cloth was cut the man who sent them to their doom?_

_He had written countless papers, countless letters on his theory of state. But now that he was called upon to close his earthly books, how could he be certain that after he died he wouldn't find himself stretched out on the burning sands of hell along with the other blasphemers?¹_

_Along with the sodomites._

_A spasm shook Richelieu's body._

_Not all of his sins had been committed in the name of the state._

_He had been proud. If God blessed him with His mercy, allowing Richelieu to suffer finite torments in purgatory, he would find a stone there waiting for him, to weigh him down as much as his vanity weighed down his soul 2 _

_He had known lust. Having to endure the fires of purgatory for even a thousand years would be a kindness³._

_People had killed in his name. What part of the afterlife awaited instigators of murder again?_

_Even the learned clergy, who studied to interpret God's words, were fallible like Adam._

_Holding the wooden beads between his fingers, Richelieu watched the moonlight slip through a gap between the drapes. It made him wonder – would he have to endure another dawn?_

_The wooden rosary beads were worn smooth with age and use. They called to mind his humble beginnings; the day when, as a small boy, he had been given the rosary for his first confession. It was a simple treasure, wooden, unornamented, but Richelieu had held onto it through the years, keeping it where only those who entered the most private chambers of his Palais would ever find it._

_The rosary reminded Richelieu of what he had been, of whose legacy he carried, and what he had made of himself. It reminded him of family, and of love – the one blessing that had the power to raise a soul from eternal damnation._

_A sigh escaped from Richelieu's dried out throat._

_Treville, a man who wore honour like a second skin, who confounded the pit of snakes that was the Royal court with his principles, had not thought the Cardinal too damned to be worthy of that blessing._

_Richelieu blinked, thinking his failing body had to be making him sentimental. But if there was one sign in his life, that God could be merciful—_

_A hand clamping over Richelieu's mouth cut off his thoughts, choking any feeble scream he could have mustered._

_He struggled, but his efforts were brushed away as easily as a child's. When his assailants bound Richelieu's hands they were untroubled by the rosary slung around his wrist._

_Richelieu screamed in his mind as the cries from his lips were muffled._

_Why now? Didn't they know he was dying? Was he not allowed to die in peace?_

_Someone held his nose shut even as the hand from his mouth was removed._

_Shock numbed Richelieu's brain as much as his sickness did. Only in retrospect did the strong herbal taste and the medicinal stench of the liquid they forced down his throat make him realise that his assailants must have known very well of his condition._

_The potion sapped what little strength Richelieu had left and returned him to the state of drowsiness that panic had dispersed._

_When they forced him from his deathbed, gagged and bound, his legs folded under him. At some point after that, due to his exhaustion, the villains' draught, or sheer fright, he must have fainted._

  


* * *

  


They had stuffed him into a box and brought him here – wherever here was – where he was barred even from taking a look through the window. 

His heart pounding, Richelieu tried to escape the narrow cot he had been laid in, but his limbs were still weak, and his failing legs repaid his bout of energy by sending him to the hard stone floor.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his knees, Richelieu began to pull himself up with the help of the cot, when he heard something scraping over the wood of the cell door. He looked up in time to see a small hatch in the door close. This was followed by the faint sound of footsteps – only a couple, only audible in the complete silence of this dimly-lit otherworld as it was muffled by the door.

Whoever stood guard outside his prison now knew he was awake, and they had likely left to fetch someone. Infiltrating his Palais, abducting him from his deathbed and transporting him all the way without Spain had to have been a major operation. Whoever ran this prison, Richelieu guessed they took their orders from Madrid's spymaster.

Forcing his heart back down into his chest, Richelieu climbed back onto the cot. He resisted the urge to wrap the blanket around his scraped, naked legs with some effort. 

The sound of the cell door being unlocked and unbarred gave Richelieu ample warning to put on a neutral mien in order to displace the fright he felt. 

The heavy door swung open and in stepped an armed guard, who took up position beside the entrance. After him followed Raoul Vargas, knight of the Spanish crown and favourite of King Philip's First Minister. 

Richelieu had met Vargas before, in his then official function as deputy to the Spanish Home Secretary. On that occasion, the man had been dressed in the latest court fashions of his home country, meant to draw attention and impress. 

Despite his simple, dark clothes, Vargas the spymaster looked no less regal than Vargas the politician. Here he stood in his true kingdom of massive doors, empty stone walls and barred windows. 

It was mainly the lack of a curling tail that distinguished him from a King of Hell about to damn the dead sinners⁴.

"Cardinal Richelieu. You are finally awake." The ruler of limbo stood, smiling, just out of arm's reach. "What a relief. The poison took longer to drain from your system than we expected. You have been our guest for four days now." 

Anything Richelieu could think of to say to Vargas was obstructed by the ball of rage in his throat. He spat it out along with the man's name.

"Vargas. I suspected your involvement, but I hardly expected to see the great spymaster in person so soon."

"I am pleased that you have regained the use of your tongue. I wouldn't have missed the pleasure of your conversation for anything in the world." Vargas gestured from the miserable cot to the barred window. "Entertaining you here— nothing could bring me greater joy."

Richelieu believed every word. He knew he would feel the same if their positions were reversed. The thought of having Vargas at his mercy subdued his horror for a brief moment, allowing Richelieu a grim smile of his own.

"I hope to return your hospitality one day."

Vargas's satisfied expression remained undisturbed. "It is unlikely you will ever get the chance. If you remembered the circumstances of your arrival here, you would know this. But I am not surprise you cannot. When my men brought you here, you were delirious with fever. "

"I can't imagine what I am supposed to have forgotten, but it will be my pleasure to ensure _you_ won't forget my departure."

"I see you have regained your wits as well, but I have to disappoint you. You will not be leaving this place – at least, not in this life." Vargas looked around the sparse cell again, dropping his smile. "Consider this your retirement."

"I don't intend to retire yet." Richelieu pressed the words through clenched teeth.

"You can cease your grandstanding, Cardinal. We both know it's for show, and who do you hope to impress? My guards? They don't know enough French to follow our conversation." Vargas threw a look at the man who had entered the cell with him as if to underline his point. 

"Besides," he continued, "they cannot listen to someone who is dead."

"I believe I would have noticed if I were dead." Despite the hellish circumstances he found himself in, Richelieu knew he was quite alive. His scraped knee was proof enough. 

" _We_ both know the truth," Vargas said. "But who else does? You were dying when we took you. You yourself believed it." 

Richelieu's mirth vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Vargas was right. He had thought he was dying. He'd amended his will a final time, and received the final sacraments. He'd kissed Treville goodbye.

Only decades of practice allowed him to keep an unreadable expression. 

"Your chief physician drew up a beautiful death certificate. He never liked you all that much, as you were no doubt aware? At least, not as much as his family, or a beautiful mansion in Flanders. The late Cardinal Richelieu was buried yesterday. It's a shame you couldn't stay and see the funeral. I am sure it was beautiful. Perhaps they even found some old widow to cry for you."

Vargas' lips twisted into a sadistic smile. 

"But perhaps they didn't have to. Perhaps your King wept for you. I hear he's soft – and so much more vulnerable since that his First Minister died without naming a successor." 

Richelieu didn't move a muscle. He was aware that his face had to look frozen, but it was the only way to keep his lip from trembling.

"The casket was kept closed, of course, on our physician's orders," Vargas continued. "A suitable replacement corpse to fit in height and weight was provided. You know the tricks."

The smile vanished.

"But these aren't your tricks, are they? "

Richelieu could feel his expression darken as he held the spymaster's gaze. He had to look up at Vargas from where he sat on the cot. 

"You don't bother with corpses to cover your abductions. When you snatch people they vanish without a trace, and the rest of the world is left to wonder; did they disappear? Or have they been _disappeared_?"

Richelieu said nothing. They watched each other for a drawn-out moment during which Richelieu's face remained immobile. He returned Vargas' stare even as his eyes began to sting.

"I wonder if they could pay anyone enough to cry for someone like you," Vargas said. 

Richelieu blinked. 

Vargas retreated to stand next to his guard, his back turned to Richelieu, readjusting his gloves. He looked ready to leave and Richelieu watched him, stunned. 

"No one will come looking for you. You are dead."

Vargas ordered his guard to open the door and by the time he turned to look back at Richelieu a cool, neutral countenance had returned to the spymaster's face 

"I don't let people wonder. I do not give them hope," he said. "I'm not as cruel as you."

"Is that all?" Richelieu met Vargas' gaze without flinching. 

"I will leave you now to consider your choices. It must be a lot to take in." Vargas' voice was toneless. "Perhaps, once your situation has become clearer to you, we can have a proper conversation."

"I doubt you are going to find our conversations very fruitful, Vargas."

A smile returned to Vargas' face. It looked small and tight, and was confined to one corner of his mouth. 

"You _are_ going talk to me. A lot. After all, what else is there for you to do here? We have so much time."

The guard followed Vargas outside and the door closed behind them. Richelieu heard the key turn in the lock, and the bolt scrape into place. 

He was alone in limbo.

After a second or two he tried to stand up again. A sense of balance had to have returned to him, since this time his legs didn't buckle.

Richelieu took a few determined steps towards the window, then stopped himself. The window was too high up. He'd never reach it. Turning around, he bent down next to the cot. 

Its frame was made of iron. Richelieu doubted he was strong enough to lift it, but perhaps he could drag it underneath the window. He pulled, only to realise that the cot had been bolted to the floor. 

He swept his gaze over the empty, grey netherworld of the cell, but apart from a set of buckets sitting in a corner, the cot with its straw mattress was the only piece of furniture. 

Richelieu swallowed. Not even in the Seminary did he have to put up with a mattress stuffed with straw.

For lack of anything else to do, Richelieu sank to the floor and sat. It did not matter that the cot's metal frame cut into his back as he leaned against it.

In this position, unable to catch even a glimpse through the window to distract himself, Richelieu felt powerless to avoid thinking about what had been done to him. 

He had been buried. Even though he was still alive there was a stone pressing down on his back.

If Vargas was to be believed, everyone in Paris thought he was dead, laid to rest in consecrated ground. If Vargas was telling the truth, rescue was an unbearably distant hope. 

The Red Guards would have been disbanded by now. He had personally signed the letters of recommendation that would see his officers accepted in any other guard regiment with open arms – bar the King's Musketeers, of course.

His household staff, who had looked after him and his affairs so diligently, would have been dismissed. Richelieu had taken care to ensure that his most loyal assistants would be able to find new employment immediately upon his death. 

His Palais would be sold, most likely to the Crown. The palace he had built for himself and lived in for almost a decade would cease to be his home.

Richelieu ran his palms over his abused wrists and shuddered. They had even taken his rosary.

Only few people outside of his household would mourn the Cardinal's passing. Most of the family members he cared for had left this Earth before him, and he was anything but beloved at court. The King's remaining Ministers would already be fighting over his vacated offices.

The King might be deciding his successor at this very moment. 

His only remaining brother would be praying for a soul to ascend to the Lord that was as barred from entering Heaven now as surely as if this prison really was limbo. 

Captain Treville…

_They held the Requiem Mass the day before yesterday._

It was enough to make a man wish he hadn't woken up at all from his fevered sleep. 

Richelieu raised his hands to his face.

Vargas' threat could very well turn out to not have been empty: Richelieu might die in this cell. 

He forced himself to get to his feet again, but didn't know what to do once he was up. He couldn't even tell whether what lay beyond the barred window was a courtyard, or simply wilderness. The quiet outside made a case for the latter, which would make summoning help all the more difficult. 

Richelieu retreated to his cot, his head heavy on his shoulders. He looked again at the window while he sat, the blanket wrapped around his naked legs. The light was fading.

  


* * *

  


1 Having to lie face-down on burning sand, tormented by a rain of fire, is a punishment for blasphemers and sodomites described in Dante's Divine Comedy. As he had an interested in theological discourse and the work was a key text of the Renaissance Richelieu would have been familiar with it.

² In Dante's vision of purgatory the souls of the proud are taught humility by having a stone placed on their backs.

[ ³ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7408498/chapters/16827076#foot3t) According to Dante the lustful souls are burned by a wall of fire in purgatory until their sin has been burned away.

[ ⁴ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7408498/chapters/16827076#foot4t) Originally a figure from Greek Mythology, King Minos of Crete was first imagined as a judge of the dead in Vergil's Aeneid. Dante picked up this motif for his Divine Comedy, where Minos resides between Limbo and the lower circles of Hell, indicating which circle of Hell each sinner's soul must descend to by curling his tail.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Of course the sun would be shining on the day they buried Armand de Richelieu._

In the morning the faint light returned, still grey. It heralded the break of another day in limbo, at the end of a fitful night. 

The previous evening Richelieu hadn't he could possibly feel more exhausted, but with the darkness had come the cold.

The window had stayed closed, of course, all through the night, but there was no fire in the cell and summer was still months away. Richelieu had lain curled up against the cold in his thin gown, wrapped in the woollen blanket, and had prayed for the fortitude to survive from one hour to the next. He hadn't found much sleep during the night and more than once wondered whether he'd wake if he did. 

When he had not been praying or chasing thoughts of death, his mind called up images of the kingdom that had been taken from him. He saw the halls of his Palais lying empty and abandoned, covered in frost. He saw Louis lending his ear to flatterers, who dismantled Richelieu's policies and took back the power he had spent a lifetime prizing from their hands. 

The sights before his eyes had frozen his insides as much as the drug-induced illness had.

Trying to recall the feeling of warmth, he had summoned memories of the sunlight falling through the leaves in his gardens; of birds singing in the warm daylight; of his flowerbeds in bloom, filling the air with their heavy fragrance. He remembered the fireplace in his study spreading light and heat during long work hours. He remembered a lover's embrace, hot lips and heated skin through a long, warm night. 

Even these profane desires had turned to cold ash every time Richelieu's freezing, numb feet touched an inch of his skin that could still feel. 

_At the lowest point of hell_ , he remembered, _betrayers of countries, of Lords and of Queens, all languish in a frozen lake.¹_

Richelieu had curled up until he cramped, wrapped up in a frozen blanket that felt rough and stiff against his cheeks. 

It was sheer humiliation to be found in this position, but by the time he heard his jailers unbarring the door Richelieu's limbs were too stiff for him to get up before they entered. Once they had seen him he gave up on trying to sit, lest they heard him groan from the effort. 

The guards brought with them a low, wide brazier. Richelieu watched them hammer spikes through its feet to fix it to the floor before they lit it. Another guard placed a covered dish on the floor before they all retreated without speaking a word, but Richelieu's attention was wholly taken up by the lumps of charcoal gently smouldering in the brazier. 

_The audacity of this man!_

Of course Vargas didn't want him to die on the first day. He would never allow Richelieu to escape so easily. But to bring that brazier now instead of during the night…

Once his cell door had been locked and bolted Richelieu made a fresh effort to straighten. He groaned as he worked each muscle loose and forced his legs onto the floor. He couldn't get up immediately, and had to crawl on hands and knees to get closer to the brazier. 

It was only the second day, but Vargas already had him crawling.

Richelieu gasped at the pinpricks of his returning circulation as heat and life returned to his toes. He had to bite down on his fist to muffle the sounds. 

He was going to kill Vargas.

Richelieu didn't know how long he rested on his side, lying by his private hellfire. He simply concentrated on breathing, and the heavenly sensation of being warm. Only once he could feel sweat form on his brow did he move away from the brazier.

Testing out his abused limbs, his gaze fell on the covered dish and he felt hunger seize him.  
How long had it been since he'd last eaten? The day he 'died' he hadn't been able to keep anything down. Had his captors somehow nourished him while he had been delirious with fever? 

The little hatch in the door was closed, so Richelieu allowed himself to give in to his hunger – and drew back immediately after he lifted the cover. His body told him he was famished and he could feel his stomach contract to prove it, but the sight and smell of the food made him sick. Richelieu would have laughed at the perversity of his situation if the attempt didn't make him retch. 

Richelieu retreated to lean back against the frame of his cot until his breathing normalised and the nausea had passed. Having taken a deep breath, he looked at the dish again; at the portion of bread, hard cheese and dried fish.

Although it was a simple meal, such as he would have chosen himself, without the trappings of elaborate court cuisine, he was not convinced he'd be able to keep it down, despite – or perhaps because of – his hunger. Yet, unless he preferred to starve, he would have to try.

How his enemies in France would laugh if they ever learned that the great Cardinal had expired after barely a day spent in some hole the Spanish had thrown him into. With the image of the hated courtiers and princes in mind, Richelieu forced himself to pick up the food, trying not breathe in too deeply while he ate. Except for the exceedingly salty fish none of the food tasted particularly flavourful, but Richelieu hadn't expected it to. He was thankful for it, since he considered it unlikely that he would have been able to keep down a richer meal. 

Even when he wasn't weak from sickness, hunger and poison, Richelieu was a picky eater and always had been. As a child his caretakers had despaired over him, and before he had become the most powerful man in France any number of people had teased him about his narrow, bony frame. After his rise to power, the number of people who remarked on his Spartan eating habits to his face had decreased. Only the King still teased him when he pushed food across his plate at state functions. In private, this role had occasionally fallen to Treville.

Even as a Captain, Treville had retained a soldier's appetite that allowed him to eat anything put in front of him. Even if he should complain about the taste afterwards. It had made the meals they had shared away from the eyes and ears of the Royal Court interesting.

Now Treville believed him dead.

His stomach rumbled, and Richelieu forced himself to take another bite. He ate slowly, hoping it would help avoid the embarrassment of Vargas' men having to scrub away his sick.  
Once he had cleaned the plate there was little else for him to do but watch the fire.

There was nothing in this cell. Nothing to do. Not even something he could burn, except for the blanket and himself.

He closed his eyes and pulled the blanket over his knees. 

It was only the second day.

The guards came, took his plate, exchanged the bucket holding watered down wine for a fresh one, and left him in hell without saying a word. Again.

Richelieu retreated to his cot, but the brazier remained his only distraction from his own thoughts. It did a poor job of occupying his mind, and so he eventually began to doze. His body, still weak from the poison, appeared thankful for the respite. 

_Some food tasters he'd employed._

Unless the poison had found its way to him in some other fashion.

_Some guards he'd had._

He'd written those bastards letters of recommendation until he hadn't trusted his hands to write anymore; at which point he'd dictated them. 

His agents had failed him even more. No hint of Vargas' plot had reached his ears.  
Instead, Richelieu had set up a recommendation for his chief physician.

It had probably been easy for the man to poison him. Considering Richelieu's frail health, his physician would have only needed to lace the medicine for some entirely unrelated or even fictitious affliction. The rest of the quacks he'd employed must have taken the result for some natural ailment brought about by unbalanced humours. 

The memory of how they'd bled him, poked and abused and drained his body in the name of curing him only to bring him to the brink of death, had Richelieu roll his head in frustration. He would have howled, but he still remembered where he was. Who he was. Who was outside that door. 

By now these men who had failed him all considered him dead and buried. He might as well be.

Richelieu took a deep breath and lay down on his side, staring at the brazier. 

Since he was prone to the occasional bout of illness, mainly headaches, there had been little cause for alarm when he had begun to feel unwell. He had continued to demand as much of his body and mind as ever, working late into the night, waking before sunrise, and following the King's Court wherever his monarch saw fit to lead. His physicians had fussed over him whenever there had been a break in his schedule.

But that stage hadn't lasted. He'd become bedridden. Eventually even sitting up had caused him such overwhelming pain that his doctors had collectively forbidden any more courtiers and petitioners from visiting – apart from the King. And someone else. 

Richelieu remembered the many times that he had left the relative safety Paris to accompany his King into the field. He remembered every previous plot against his life. He remembered, most clearly of all, his foolish, ultimately unnecessary attempt to replace the Queen, and the execution it had nearly summoned. 

He remembered all the arguments about he'd had about those events with the Captain of the King's Musketeers. 

Richelieu remembered the last time they had seen each other, and he did not wonder whether Treville had cried for him.

  


* * *

  


The cathedral was bathed in sunlight, falling in through the stained glass windows. It joined the myriad of candle flames illuminating the cathedral's grand sanctuary where a black coffin rested on a bier. 

The light made the ivory crucifix lying on the coffin lid glow, warming the solemn figure hanging from the cross. Yet, it failed to make the black coffin any easier to look at. 

Of course the sun would be shining on the day they buried Armand de Richelieu. 

It was the first warm day of the year and the weather, combined with the stuffy air in the crowded church, made Treville feel sick. 

The building was packed with courtiers and clergy, none of whom could be seen failing to pay their respects to the great Cardinal. So they attended his burial service in force, wearing their best solemn faces. 

They all stole Treville's breath. 

He tried to look like he was paying attention. After all, he was not just here for the service; he was here to protect his King. But it was hard to focus with the sun laughing at him, and the sycophants in the aisles feigning reverence.

At least he didn't have to keep an eye on them too. There were musketeers stationed all around the church. Treville merely had to watch over the King's retinue sitting on the pews in the choir, and look alert. At least Louis was honest in his sentiments. From where he stood Treville could see the King's shoulders tremble from time to time. Since the seat beside the Louis was empty in the Queen's absence, there was no one to hold his hand and stop it from shaking. 

Treville raised his eyes from watching the King curl his fingers tightly around his arm rest back to the officiating Bishop who kept droning on. The warmth and the dizziness it induced made following the service an effort. Treville's eyes had almost misted over once or twice already. 

Perhaps he should have left this task to Athos. He was of as much use here as he would be sitting in the aisle among the rows of spectators. But he couldn't leave the King alone in his grief. And if he had excused himself from this task by feigning illness or more important business, he would have had to stay at the garrison for piety's sake.

To distract himself Treville watched dust particles dance in the air until they were swallowed by the dark wood of the coffin. Watching them fall and vanish helped him focus on breathing; on standing straight and still, like he had been taught as a young soldier by officers long since buried in dirt.

The Earth would not take Richelieu. The Cardinal would be laid to rest in a tomb of stone inside this very church. It was to be a temporary resting place, while the elaborate marble sarcophagus that would eventually surround it was completed. It had already been paid for. The King was going to make sure that his favourite advisor received his dues even in death. 

At least the procession to the grave would be a short one.

Treville followed the motion of the Bishop's pleading and gesturing and turned his attention back to the desolate sight of the bier.

Where there was a black box there should have been a body that allowed a last look at the deceased's embalmed face. Yet, the Cardinal's chief physician had insisted they should pray for Richelieu's salvation in front of a closed coffin instead. 

Treville had seen enough of death to know how pain and disfigurement could make a man's features unsuitable to be seen by a congregation in mourning. He just never had thought such a death would find Richelieu in his bed. 

His heart fluttering, Treville returned his attention to the service. He bowed his head with the rest of them, as the congregation were lead through the traditional prayers offered to the dead. After the _Benedictus_ concluded Treville watched the clergy gather around the coffin to ask God to absolve the Cardinal his sins. Treville couldn't help but think that it would be a long list. 

Once the final notes of the _Agnus Dei_ had died away, the King's retinue rose. Treville followed behind them, as was his duty, as they walked the coffin to its resting place where the Bishop would conclude his performance. 

Louis' was the only wet eye to be seen among the royal party.

The final petition on behalf of the deceased Cardinal was as short and succinct as it would have been for any other man. Then the service was over, and Richelieu was buried. 

Since Louis lingered by the tomb after the rest of the congregation dispersed, Treville remained as well. When the King left, he followed him outside, although he could feel his heart stutter. 

Once they were out of the stuffy church, Treville was finally able to breathe again. 

Sunlight sparkled on the royal coach waiting for them. It would take a moment before the escort was ready to leave, but Louis disappeared into the carriage immediately upon spotting it.

Treville had no such place of retreat. He mounted the horse handed to him and looked up into the blue, cloudless sky above. 

There lay a long day ahead of him. 

Treville's troubles did not stop at the palace door. The King retreated to his private suite as soon as they arrived. They passed a number of petitioners – perhaps hoping that the King's heart would be softened by grief – but Louis snapped at them.

"What do you want from me, you vultures? The Cardinal is barely buried and here you are—" He was shaking too hard to continue speaking and Treville quickly hurried him along to his bedchamber, away from the scandalised courtiers.

"Sire—"

"Let no one enter, Captain," Louis said, quavering. Tears were streaming down his face. "I don't want any visitors. There'll be no audiences today."

Treville nodded, stunned. "Yes, your Majesty." He remained hovering by the door until Louis turned away.

"Please, leave me alone." The King's voice broke.

Bowing, Treville retreated. He was unable to do anything else for him.

Outside of the King's private suite a handful of suitors lingered.

"Leave," Treville said, drawing himself to his full height. "The King will grant no audiences today." 

"But, Treville—"

He sent them a dark look. Once his audience had dispersed, Treville took it upon himself to serve as a link between the King's apartments and the rest of the palace. The alternative was to delegate the duty to one of his musketeers, return to the garrison, and bury himself in paperwork; orders for gunpowder and reports detailing the petty intrigues among the nobility. 

As was their nature, the courtiers had started clamouring over Richelieu's position at the King's side the moment the Cardinal had been confined to his bed. They would continue to do so in the days, weeks, and months to follow. Only yesterday the musketeers had discovered proof that a Duchess with high ambitions for her husband was blackmailing one of the Archbishop's protégés over the matter. 

Richelieu hadn't even been buried yet. 

Now Treville had to deal with these nobles, to prevent them from petitioning an emotionally vulnerable King with their bids for power.

Fortunately for the Royal Court, the news that the Queen had given birth to a healthy son dried Louis' tears only a short while later. To be able to welcome the Dauphin into the world was possibly the only event that could have consoled the King. 

But even as Treville watched the sun rise on the King's face he found himself unable to celebrate the happy occasion with the appropriate vigour. His relief over the good health of the Queen and the child soon abated in the face of his other worries.

Richelieu's death left a hole that threatened to swallow the palace, among other things. The nobles' infighting was only the most visible symptom. Whoever took Richelieu's seat on the council, and whoever was made First Minister in his place, Treville couldn't help but feel that he would live a cursed existence. 

He'd never imagined Louis would want him to be that person. 

Treville would not be the man to ruin what Richelieu had sacrificed his health to build. He would not accept that role. Not on the day Richelieu had been buried.

Richelieu had been infuriating, lacking any understanding or care for honour, but he had also been a great politician who had carried the young monarchy's best interests at heart. Treville had believed in the Cardinal's ultimate goals, despite differing opinions on how they were best to be achieved.

Compared to that great man of state, Treville was a soldier with no mind for political visions. Louis had to see this. The King was grieving now and reaching out for what – or who – was familiar to him in his hurt, but eventually he would understand.

Louis did not. Not now.

Treville closed his eyes in pain. It was not every day that his King wished him dead in front of the entire Court. 

Louis complained that his Captain had mortally offended him by his rejection, but he was not the only one to feel the stab of betrayal when he wished Treville dead instead of Richelieu. 

Finding himself dismissed, Treville quit the palace before he could embarrass himself further, leaving behind a number of confused musketeers in the audience chamber. By morning, the entire regiment would know of his disgrace, even should Treville keep quiet about it. 

They deserved to know. Louis was certain to take his displeasure with their Captain out on the men. 

Treville left the palace with flying steps, barely taking note of his surroundings until he reached the stables. He rode back to the garrison alone, his mood souring with every passing moment. His temper didn't let up when he overheard two musketeers chatting about the bright times they were headed towards with an heir to the throne, and the Cardinal finally dead.

Their spirits sank when they saw the look on their Captain's face as he passed them. 

"Lesard!" One of the musketeers standing nearby looked up, apprehension in his eyes.

The thought of retiring to his private rooms triggered an immense yearning within Treville, but unfortunately the Captain of the Musketeers had a job to do, and a duty towards his men. Even should there already be a royal messenger on his way to the garrison, carrying Treville's dismissal.

Lesard closed the door behind them quietly. The musketeer's pallor and guarded expression told Treville that he rightfully dreaded what he was going to hear. 

Rubbing his face, Treville took a seat behind his desk. He already felt sorry for having snapped at the musketeer. It wasn't Lesard's fault his Captain hadn't had the wits to explain himself to his grieving King without causing offense. 

The headache that the stuffy cathedral had given him had addled his thinking. Of course, this was only an explanation, not an excuse. There was no excuse for failing a King. 

He could faintly hear Richelieu's teasing in his mind. The burial had taken place that morning, but already Treville had managed to ruin his standing with the King for the foreseeable future. _"Perhaps you misjudged that."_

"Captain?" Lesard was still standing by the door. 

"Please sit. There is something you need to know." 

The musketeer sat down, his face a blank mask. 

"The King offered me a seat on the council. I refused him." Treville scratched his beard. He hadn't trimmed it since Richelieu's death. "I am sorry. The King won't let this slight go unpunished, and he'll take it out on you. There'll be twice as much work. Whatever task the King can think of, any wish, a musketeer will have to handle it."

"What do you want us to do?" 

Treville had sworn to always protect Louis; to always serve his King as best as he could. He had pledged his life to him, to this King he had first met as a young child. The shy, unloved tool of his mother's ambitions.

He remembered the day Louis had taken the throne from his mother. Marie had been unwilling to relinquish her power without a struggle. She'd fought against her own son.

Louis had created the King's Musketeers in the aftermath and made Treville their Captain. They were the first guard regiment raised by the young King, sworn only to him. 

He remembered how Louis had smiled at him the first time the King had taken the salute. 

Treville swallowed.

"Do as he commands, no matter how inane it sounds. He'll calm down. This regiment is his pride. He'll forgive his loyal soldiers for my trespassing."

As Treville watched Lesard leave to deliver the bad news to his brethren, a part of him wished Athos were there. His lieutenant would have stuck around. He would have mocked Treville with his sarcastic wit, but he would have slipped words of encouragement in between. They would have been very pragmatic words, but encouraging nonetheless. 

Athos also would have dared to ask after how Treville was holding up after losing his royal favour during such difficult times for the Court. And he would have found a way to keep his Captain company until Treville chased him out of the office. 

But Athos and his group were out of Paris on a secret mission that would keep them days yet. Treville was sure Louis would still be nursing his hurt by the time they returned. 

God willing, they'd bring good news with them. News that, even if it didn't fix his relationship with the King, could at least fix everything else.

As the corners of his eyes started to sting, Treville was suddenly glad he was alone. 

_Damn him!_

He wiped his face. He couldn't let the musketeers see him cry. His day wasn't over yet, no matter how much his bed called to him. He was not free to retreat, and disappear in his office.

Of course, the men would assume it was the stress getting to him, but they shouldn't be thinking that either. They shouldn't have to think of their Captain as emotionally stricken at a time when powerful noblemen mauled each other over vacant court offices. At a time when Treville had managed to endanger the protection the regiment enjoyed from their liege. 

But all of this was only an addition to everything else that had gone wrong. Treville had lost Richelieu.

The Cardinal had been frustrating to work with, particularly when he pretended to have no care for basic empathy whenever it didn't suit his politics. Treville could still remember their last heated argument, and so would two dozen courtiers, palace guards and servants who had suffered the misfortune of having been in the same wing of the palace at the time. 

Yet, the Cardinal had also possessed the traits Treville lacked, but which the kingdom's leadership so desperately needed. 

Treville had needed Richelieu for what people had dubbed coldness or ruthlessness. Those traits that Treville had come to appreciate as pragmatism. Richelieu had not been afraid to sin so that the King and his subjects were able to rest with an easy conscience. Time after time the Cardinal been forced to conquer his Christian fears for a greater goal.

Treville had needed him for his understanding of a shared burden. For being the man who knew about his conflicts of conscience. Treville needed him for being the man who didn't judge his afflictions, professional or personal. 

Losing him to sickness so suddenly, and so soon, had been a nightmare. Even attending the service and seeing the coffin didn't quite make it seem real.

_Richelieu was dead._

They'd never argue again. 

Treville would never again return to the Palais Cardinal and find Richelieu in its grand audience hall.

Never again would he see his face, hear his voice, touch his skin.

Taking a deep breath, Treville rubbed his eyes and wondered at the wetness.

The musketeers who expressed relief at the Cardinal's passing would never understand any of this. At his core Richelieu had been as human as any of them. He had a heart. He had been warm, generous and capable of a mercy that had to be practiced in secret, by way of middlemen, because he had not dared bare it before his enemies. 

Richelieu had shouldered the burdens no one else could. Burdens that even Treville had only been able to face with the greatest distaste. Richelieu had battled to align his actions with his faith on more than one occasion as a consequence, and after the bloody state's work was done the Cardinal had craved conversation and an intimate touch as much as anybody else. 

He had fought with Treville because of those burdens more often than not. They had hardly ever agreed to the other's methods. Sometimes, Richelieu had gone too far. 

In some of these cases Treville had been able to step in and stop the passions of the man he had chosen to protect from spilling over into needless destruction. Labarge, Ninon, the King's hidden nephew… Their faces that came to mind easily, because they were fresh. But there had been others before them. 

And they hadn't been the last. 

Treville sighed deeply. The botched attempt on the Queen's life had strained their relationship almost beyond mending. 

The failed assassination had changed everything. Treville vividly remembered his anger once he had found out; the feeling of betrayal when Richelieu had confessed to him. But he also remembered the fear; of Richelieu being charged with treason, and, of what Treville might have done if it had come to that. 

Afterwards, they had decided to try again. After all, they could hardly have avoided seeing each other or working together on a daily basis. 

Treville had never been able to kill a feeling that wouldn't die on its own.

A promise had been made that each of them would take steps to prevent a misjudgement on the scale of the failed assassination from happening again. As much as Treville depended on Richelieu's pragmatism and iron conviction to guide the ship of state through every kind of weather, but Richelieu had begged him to see how much he relied on Treville to prevent him from sabotaging what he hoped to create. 

There had never been an occasion to test their promises. 

After a few short months, Treville had kissed Richelieu's lips a final time, trusting that Richelieu knew what he had meant to him regardless of their differences. 

Now Treville was left to keep that ship afloat alone. Judging by how well his latest conversation with the King had turned out, he was much better suited to sinking it single-handedly.

  


* * *

  


1 The ninth circle of Hell, according to Dante.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever help Richelieu could hope for, he had to summon it himself._

Treville dropped into the seat behind his desk, and sighed. He rearranged the documents in front of him, unable to take in a word of the reports. Deciding to see to his correspondence instead, he laid out an empty sheaf of paper, but none of the quills lay right in his hand and he did not know how to begin. He stood up again shoving paper and quills away, and started pacing. 

Since he was avoiding the royal palace beyond what his duties as the Captain of the King's Musketeers absolutely necessitated, he had been spending a lot more time at the garrison. Within the last few days, he'd inspected his troops twice, and the armoury was undergoing perpetual inventory.

But for today, inspection and practice were over, and the men hardly needed his direction on their day-to-day tasks. The day's register wasn't due for another two hours, and until then the musketeers were probably glad to have him off their backs. The pile of reports and letters on his desk looked so unappealing that Treville decided to leave it for the day, and see if it could grow worse.

Retrieving a glass from his cabinet – he was still a man of some manners after all – he sat back down and uncorked a bottle. It had proven the most reliable way to combat the lines of worry that lately threatened to take over his brow since Athos and his squad had left on another special mission.

His musketeers had offered to arrange for an accident to happen on the road only in jest, but Treville knew that he wouldn't shed a tear if they returned without Rochefort. 

Even though he had barely known the man before Rochefort had left for Spain to become the Queen's tutor, Treville had already decided that he couldn't stand the Comte.

How dare he barge into this office, into the palace – the wrong man back from the dead – and receive an audience and a warm welcome from the same King who wouldn't even look Treville in the eye? All before humiliating the Spanish ambassador in full view of the assembled Court? 

Rochefort had sent the Spaniard to the floor with a single punch while Treville had stood there and watched, endangering the fragile peace with their Spanish neighbours that Richelieu had fostered. 

Wouldn't it have been fitting, upon everything else, if the Ambassador had just packed his things and left the Court in a huff? It would allow the Spanish Crown to demand reparations for this insult, that, if refused, could lead to a war France was ill-prepared to fight as long as the King's council was understaffed and busy with infighting.

They all knew open war with Spain was inevitable. Richelieu had worked for years to keep the tension from breaking until just the right moment. 

Now that the Cardinal was dead, the proxy war in the East was once more a powder keg attached to a burning fuse.

Although Treville knew how to lead troops into battle, how to besiege a fortress, and how to defend it, he did not know how to direct this powder keg to blow up in the Spanish King's face instead of his own.

And Rochefort just had to go and fan the flames higher within minutes of arriving at Court. 

Yet, on top of dazzling King and Court, he'd come up with a plan that could rob Spain of a valuable asset and hand Louis an advantage in that unavoidable war. 

Treville paced back to his desk but could not sit down. The thought that he might be seeing de Foix again tore up Treville's insides. Receiving the news of his survival in the wake of Richelieu's death had been like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. 

For one blessed moment Treville had felt energised, uplifted. That moment had passed quickly.

What would his friend look like after all these years? Would time have ravaged his leonine features? The gentle dignity of his face? 

What changes would the war in the east have wrought in him?

And what of his captivity?

Yet, even though it was possible that, face to face, they would struggle to find each other in the ruin that war, imprisonment, and the shadow of Belgard had wrought, Treville wanted nothing so much as to hear someone call him "brother" again the way de Foix once had.

They would go out and drink like they'd done when there had been three of them. 

They would stay in that tavern until their host threw them out. They'd joke and spar and together they would draw up battle plans. 

Treville would be able to show de Foix around the garrison, the regiment he'd built, and the musketeers would vie to show off for the general. If there was anything left of his old friend, he'd love the men as much as Treville did. 

To think he'd been deprived of this friend so unjustly… That de Foix had been alive, just across the border…

Treville emptied his glass to drown the rage. 

De Foix had been supporting their Swedish allies for years before his presumed death. Once war broke out with Spain, there would be no one better suited to lead the King's armies. They'd take their revenge side by side. Treville would carry his friend onto that battlefield if he had to.

He poured himself another glass to steady his hands.

If France were less vulnerable, the revelation of de Foix' abduction would have been enough to provoke a war.

If Rochefort was telling the truth.

If this wasn't an elaborate trap laid out by the Comte.

If it _was_ the truth, and Rochefort was as genuine as he claimed to be, then Treville would have de Foix back.

Treville wiped the back of his hand over his burning eyes. 

If nothing else went wrong. After Richelieu's death, and the King's displeasure, and Perales' outburst.

If…

Treville pushed the bottle away to avoid any accidents as he looked for something to punch.

Finding de Foix only made up one part of the plan Rochefort had proposed. He had also pointed out, in less elegant words, that depriving the Spanish of their prisoner was more important than ensuring that de Foix made it back to Paris alive. 

The implication had struck Treville like a knife to the stomach. He could not be expected to send out his musketeers to find de Foix and to murder him. But, of course, in the end he had conceded. 

Even though Rochefort's mind was consumed with the need to revenge himself on the Spanish, he had still been clear-headed enough to rightfully point out that they weren't undertaking a rescue mission, but an act of sabotage. 

Whatever happened to de Foix – whether he lived or died – it was ancillary to protecting French state secrets. Treville had protested, but he'd also the given the order. He knew his duty. After all, he had a lot of practice. 

What difference did it make whether the sacrifice was de Foix, or Belgard, or a troop of musketeers?

  


* * *

  


Treville didn't pick up that bottle again for several days. Recalling his musings from the last time he had poured a glass from it, he felt tempted to throw the thing against the wall. How satisfying it would be to watch the glass shatter into uncountable pieces, spraying the walls, floor and ceiling with amber pearls and bits of glass that crunched under his boots.

The glass would never be able to cut as deep as shards of shattered hope.

When de Foix had died his second, final, death Treville had sat by his side and held his hand. Lucie had been banished from the chamber on her brother's request. Even a woman as brave as her didn't need to watch a man she loved succumb to a death as cruel as one from a ruptured stomach. For Treville, it hadn't been the first time. 

Had he been wrong to hope that his best men, his most trusted musketeers, could succeed at their mission _and_ save de Foix?

His men, God bless them, who had offered him their earnest condolences. Porthos especially had looked as though it was his heart that was bleeding instead of Treville's. 

Treville hadn't been able to meet his eyes for longer than a moment. How could he accept comfort from a man he and de Foix had deprived of so much?

Athos – good, reliable Athos – had offered to empty a bottle with him, but Treville had refused. He couldn't risk loosening his tongue on the topic of de Foix in his company. Athos had retreated gracefully, but Treville had found a bottle of Armagnac sitting on his doorstep in the evening regardless. There was a lot of de Foix he recognised in Athos' gruff candour. 

When his old friend had left France after King Henri's assassination and Belgard's trial, so much had remained unsaid between them that the written word never could have mended. 

They had never even tried.

De Foix had never mentioned Belgard in his letters, and Treville had never mentioned Porthos. There had been other things to write about. Even though their letters grew longer the subjects had become smaller. When de Foix had been taken, so many old wounds had been left unsealed, and neither fate nor God nor bloody chance had granted them a second opportunity to close them. 

The time that they had been given before de Foix' mind had been pulled beneath a sea of pain and drugs had been too short. It had sufficed to summon Belgard's ghost, but not to banish him again. 

Treville sat the glass down onto the desk before pouring. He didn't trust his hands to remain steady.

A couple of days ago, when Treville had taken comfort in the fact that he'd put his best men on this secret mission, he'd believed that the universe owed him. Richelieu would have chided him for this blasphemy had he ever voiced the thought out loud, but Richelieu wasn't there, and that was part of the problem.

Treville was free to wish that death had been easier on de Foix, as much as he could wish for Richelieu to return to the land of the living, or that Porthos still had a mother. Fate had long since proven that it didn't care for Treville's wishes. There was no better proof of this than that his friend had been returned to him only to be taken away again in the same instant. 

Death never gave up those that entered her domain. In the end, she always found a way to reap what had been kept from her.

Treville raised the glass to his lips.

 _Here's to you then, old friends._ Treville drank, grinning as his throat burned. _Here's to ghosts_.

  


* * *

  


At dawn, the cell door opened to admit the same two guards as the day before. They switched out the buckets for empty ones and served food and drink. 

"You again, my friends" Richelieu said in Spanish. "Where did you leave your master? I hope you didn't throw him out with the buckets?"

The guards remained stone faced as they set down their tray and stoked the coals in the brazier. 

"Is he sick? Or just too cowardly to confront the insult he did to the Church and our Lord by imprisoning me?"

The guards turned around and left. It had been like every day since his arrival. Richelieu was given food and water regularly. He had even been given a pair of stockings to save his toes from freezing during the night. But although Vargas cared to ensure death didn't rescue the Cardinal from his prison prematurely, Richelieu hadn't seen anything of the spymaster since he had first awoken. Just as Vargas had promised, Richelieu had been left to contemplate his hell alone.

There was no servant to wake him at dawn. There was no secretary to lay out his schedule for the day in the morning. There were no petitioners to hear, and no Court or King to accommodate at noon. There were no confidants to make plans with in the afternoon, and no guard Captain to instruct. No one to meet him in his chambers when his day was done.

Dawn, noon, evening. None of these words retained any meaning in limbo.

The men who brought his food answered no sarcastically worded questions as to their employer's whereabouts. At first, Richelieu was relieved. It meant his secrets were safe from Vargas' questions. His relief evaporated as soon as he realised the kind of long game Vargas had chosen to play, for the guards reacted to none of the other words he addressed to them either. 

The stockings and brazier allowed Richelieu to sleep undisturbed by the cold, but although the biting fangs of frost had retreated, the trappings of his own mind did not. Vargas' visit had left its mark. The spymaster hadn't mentioned the French King's vulnerability merely to amuse himself at his enemy's helplessness.

Vargas wanted Richelieu's failures to haunt him. At night, when his imagination assaulted him without hope of distraction, it found the Cardinal receptive to its dark pull.

Richelieu could easily see Louis lose hold of what they had built together, swayed by the flatterers around him. This King had been raised not to lead, but to follow – preferably the wishes of his mother and Regent, who had clung to every bit of power she had been able to lay her hands on. To his detriment, Richelieu had to admit that he had not done all he could have in his position to teach Louis to be more self-reliant. When he had been at Court to direct the Royal policies in lieu of the King, there had been no need to. 

It was also true that Richelieu hadn't recommended anyone to replace him. There had been a promising young Bishop he had considered for the positon, but there hadn't been time to take him under his wing. France would pay for this neglect.

Vargas had not decided on the moment to strike randomly. How exactly he planned to exploit the power vacuum he had so deliberately created was something to ask the spymaster about when Richelieu saw him next. Whenever that would be.

On the occasions that Richelieu did fall asleep, his fears exhausted for the night, he dreamed. Even though the brazier kept the cold away his dreams were filled with darkness and frost. He dreamt of a gloomy prison cell, lit poorly by orange candles that burned without a sound, that illuminated aged hands, forced to remain idle. He dreamt of white patches of snow flashing between the black, scrawny trunks of barren trees, that grew straight like prison bars in a silent wood. Human shapes crouched in the snow, their shadowy outlines fraying and dissolving like ink in water. 

Every time Richelieu awoke from these dreams with an ill feeling.

Although his nightmares exerted the strongest pull at night, daytime proved no reprieve. Already the cell began to shrink on him. He was fed, and given water and warmth and a bucket to piss in. He hadn't even a view from the window to distract him. 

He began addressing the men politely when they brought him food or maintained the brazier, and even went so far as to tell them to go with God when they turned to leave. The Spanish language came easily to a man who had mastered much more foreign languages well enough to dictate treaties in them. The guards never answered. 

In Paris, Richelieu had commanded attention through his mere presence. He had struck an imposing figure in flowing dark robes, wearing the jewellery that identified him as a prince of the Catholic Church. Any man he had talked to had to listen. Even some of the people who despised him had sought his conversation, his favour, his wealth. 

Here, in Vargas' domain, he was a barefooted prisoner dressed in a thin gown. An enemy of the crown who had been condemned to obscurity, and who spent his days and nights huddled against the chill and his own nightmares.

The guards ignored him, and he had never heard anyone come by his window. There was no one to reach out to. No one to hold him. No one to soothe his mind.

Richelieu shivered.

 _It has only been a few days_ , he reminded himself again. Vargas would tire of his waiting game eventually. After all, he had to know that if he waited too long there would not be much left of Richelieu's mind to be of use.

_Lord, have mercy._

He'd been given nothing with which to occupy his thoughts, save for dreams of an escape that seemed to him as distant as the moon.

All Richelieu had left was his mind. Where his body had failed him before, his prized mind had saved him countless times. Given nothing to consume and create it had turned on itself. 

At the Palais Cardinal Richelieu would have turned to poetry and questions of theology to relax his often fretful mind. But it was madness to think up verses or arguments without a way to write them down. Ideas that would never return to him passed fruitless through his mind without a means to preserve them.

Having finished his breakfast, the greatest excitement he had to look forward to, was the guards returning to take the dishes. Richelieu shuddered. Rising to his knees he turned his face to the window. 

_May you be strengthened with all power,_ he prayed, _according to His glorious might, for all endurance and patience with joy, giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in light.¹_

Patience was a virtue and Richelieu was practiced in being patient. 

_He will render to each one according to his works: to those who by patience in well-doing seek for glory and honor and immortality, he will give eternal life.²_

He could not give up hope. If any man's resolve would break, it had to be Vargas'. 

The sound of guards entering made Richelieu look up, but they had only returned to pick up his dishes. 

Richelieu turned back to the light and closed his eyes. He prayed to empty his mind for a blissful moment of the thoughts of France that made his stomach turn. 

_Our Father,_ he began, _who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil._

Evil such as Vargas might have in store for him.

_Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death._

He had passed that door in the eyes of the church. His body buried, the requiem mass sung.

_Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen._

An end was what had been denied from him. 

Opening his eyes, Richelieu shook his head. There had to be _some way_ to shut up his mind. Numerous monks and hermits who had borne isolation in order to be closer to God, but a monk in his cell had no lack of books, paper, or quills. Besides, Richelieu knew that it wasn't religious martyrdom that held him here. He was here because he fought against a Most Catholic, Apostolic Habsburg empire reaching across the continent uninterrupted from the Danube to the mouth of the Tajo – and because of whatever else it was that Vargas or his superiors planned for the Crown of France.

_Christ, have mercy._

Richelieu stood up, stretching his limbs, attempting the sportive exercises he had been taught as a boy at the academy. His weakened body soon forced him to stop. His muscles ached without exhausting him enough to stop his racing thoughts, and Richelieu felt tears of frustration cling to his lashes.

_Lord, have mercy._

Would Louis attempt to rule without Richelieu's guidance? Or would he leave the affairs of state to the courtier who told him the most convenient lies?

Had the Dauphin been born yet? Had he survived the birth? Had the Queen?

Had war been declared?

Surely, Vargas would not have been able to resist taunting his prisoner if he had already begun to take apart the nation Richelieu had tried to build?

Such were the nightmares that followed Richelieu into the waking world. All he could do to escape them was to repeat the cycle of prayer and failed exercises until his worries caught up with him regardless. Until it was night, and dreams fed by anxiety returned him to the forest; to the cell; to a Palais conquered by death. 

Richelieu turned to prayer again. With no success. He tried a different exercise. With no success. When the guards finally, finally returned with his dinner in the evening he had no words left for them.

When Richelieu eventually fell asleep, the human outlines in the forest became darker, clearer. He thought he could see their mouths move, but their voices were blocked out by the rush of blood in his ears. The walls of the stone cell became more solid. In the blooming gardens of his Palais appeared the faces of family members he had neglected, and mentors Richelieu had disavowed and abandoned after they had displeased the crown. 

Did their exiles feel like this? Fruitless? Lonely?

His heart stopped every time he woke up from the dark and cold and he remembered where he was. 

_Lord, lend me strength._

It was the morning of the sixth day, and the charcoal in the brazier had cooled and almost burned out. It had almost been a week since Richelieu had first come to in this hell and he knew he had to _act_.

Kneeling down next to brazier, Richelieu used his blanket to retrieve a piece of charcoal from the glow. The heat assaulting his fingers still took him by surprise, and he threw his prize away with a hiss. 

Once it had cooled, Richelieu knelt down in a corner, lifting his piece of charcoal to the empty wall, but before he wrote even the first black letter he hesitated. 

He was not a madman. 

He didn't write on walls.

Richelieu flung the coal away again.

He spent the rest of the day in meditation and prayer instead, but the dark dreams returned when he closed his eyes. 

He saw one of the figures in the black forest was kneeling in the snow in a shadow dress, her low sobs the only sounds in a sharply drawn black-and-white landscape. The figure towering above her stood robed in darkness, bleeding crimson at the seams. 

The next morning, Richelieu retrieved the charcoal and began to fill the walls with the first verses that came to his mind. The coal was a blunt, imprecise instrument. He had to scratch it against the metal frame of the cot to create something resembling a point, but he could feel himself relax after having smudged the first words onto the wall. 

The next morning the guards delivered a thin, dense stick of charcoal along with his breakfast. Richelieu was loath to use it at first, but he could not deny that it made his writing easier. And the writing helped. As he wrote line after line he realised that he had not dreamt of the forest or the cell the night before. The relief this realisation brought made him sit down. Perhaps he would not go mad. Perhaps he could outlast Vargas. Perhaps there was _hope_.

He made his way over to the cot and drew a short line on the wall right above pillow. One night of peace. The first of hopefully many. 

As he kept writing and marking off the nights, sometimes, instead of haggard, dead faces haunting his dreams, he would see blue eyes watching him. Instead of the chill of a frozen forest, he'd feel a warm hand on his skin. Instead of liquid shadows there was an undeniable solidity. They strengthened his prayers and the hand holding the coal.

Yet, although filling the walls with his thoughts soothed his mind, Richelieu soon realised that even using a shorthand he would run out of space long before he ran out of thoughts. Days passed, flowing into one. And while his nights had become more peaceful, neither the writing nor the prayers got him any closer to freedom. Even though his dreams had changed, Jean was still as far away from him in the mornings as he had been at night.

Whatever help Richelieu could hope for, he had to summon it himself. 

Vargas wanted him to talk and talk he would. The spy was right: there was nothing else for him to do here. Vargas expected Richelieu to grow desperate enough to beg. But as fortune would have it, Cardinal Richelieu never considered only one option.

A few days after he started to write, Richelieu resolved to do what the other inhabitants of Hell were barred from doing. The next time he knelt down to pray, he spoke out loud. 

From what Richelieu knew of Vargas, the man wouldn't entrust enemies of state to any guards but the most quintessential, loyal Spanish soldiers. If this was true, then these patriotic guards were staunch defenders of the Catholic faith, unable to watch over a captive Cardinal locked in a bare, cold cell with a clean conscience. Therefore, it was possible that Vargas had neglected to tell them of their prisoner's affiliations.

Richelieu wished they had returned his rosary to him, or his cross, but even without the right props, coming up with ways to assure them of his touching piety should pose no problem. Latin prayers were taught in the same manner in the civilized parts of Europe, and having been an avid scholar of theology since he had first embarked on the clerical path, Richelieu even knew enough Spanish folk prayers to make for an impressive show. 

When he prayed, Richelieu kept his profile turned towards the hatch in the door and his face towards the light that fell through the window. Soon, he turned his prayers into sermons, including stories of saints and martyrs. The preaching felt even more liberating than the writing and he quickly noticed that whenever he prayed out loud the hatch in the door stood slightly open. He began to include the guards in his prayers.

A couple of days later, when Richelieu told the man who brought his food to go with God that guard thanked him. Another addressed him as " _padre_ " the following day.

  


* * *

  


_What was it he expected to find here?_

Sometimes, listening to Rochefort or Louis rant, Treville caught himself glancing to the King's left, expecting his gaze to be met by an equally long-suffering stare. 

Losing this old habit was taking as much as effort as it would to train himself not to parry a sword-thrust at his heart.

_What was he even doing here?_

Before, on evenings when work was slow, Treville might have spent his time in the Cardinal's company. They would have ended up sharing information, a meal, or any number of different kinds of entertainment. 

Now that Treville was avoiding the palace and the King's presence whenever his duty didn't require it in order to avoid upsetting Louis further, the slow evenings had become more numerous, and harder to bear. 

He couldn't go to the Palais Cardinal. There was nothing there for him.

So where else could he have gone?

_What would his musketeers think of the Captain they so adored if they found him in this place?_

It was the first time he had returned to the cathedral since the funeral. Stood before the marble sarcophagus, he found he had nothing to say. 

The attending cleric had been looking over to him curiously for the last couple of minutes that he'd spent standing mute in front of the tomb. Treville couldn't even begin to guess what he was thinking. 

It had been a long time since he believed enough to know what kind of prayer would be appropriate to say here, in private, outside of the highly ritualistic mass.

Standing in front of Richelieu's tomb without words to say, being watched by a frowning priest, he felt like he always did when he entered a house of God without a clear protocol: like an intruder. Unwelcome. 

Spending time with Richelieu had taught Treville that the _average_ priest could not look right through you, but knowing it did not stop him from feeling out of place. Even though this was where Richelieu lay buried, he felt like a stranger under this holy roof.

He would have attempted to define the exact emotions that turned his guts into a pit of snakes, but Treville had never been good at this sort of self-examination. There was merely a void where words should have been.

He had come to the cathedral hoping that this was where he needed to be, hoping that he simply hadn't taken enough time to linger here after the burial for him to able to lay his mind to rest. If he had also hoped for answers, for comfort, he had yet to find it.

Looking up at Richelieu's marble likeness atop the sarcophagus, he felt nothing.

The life-size monument depicting the great Cardinal being lifted towards Heaven by angels seemed vulgar in its pomp, but Treville was convinced that Richelieu would at least have appreciated its effect on the average viewer. 

If not for the status keeping required by the position of First Minister of France, Richelieu would have shown little interest in flashy exhibitions of luxury and wealth in life. But since he had been the first man of the state, second only to the King, he had taken to the task of crafting his own legend as diligently as to any other. He had enjoyed being able to intimidate everyone in his presence just by means of his appearance, making everyone around him know just how important he was. 

This tomb, megalomaniac as it seemed, ensured that people would remember the Cardinal's grandeur even in death. But to Treville it represented no more than a mask. A reminder of the role Richelieu had played. The white marble face looking towards the grand ceiling was a stranger to Treville, and he recognised little of the man he'd known in its features. Too little to comfort him, even less to offer any sort of guidance. 

He longed to tell Richelieu about de Foix and Rochefort, but his guts told him that if there was any place on this Earth where his companion could be found, it was not here. It was merely the Cardinal's body that rested here; his spirit had long since departed. 

Treville could only hope it had found its way to whatever form of afterlife Richelieu had hoped for.

He sighed. If there were any tears pricking at the corners of his eyes they were born of frustration. He had made a fool of himself by coming here. He could have found the same closure back at the garrison in a bottle. 

There was nothing for him here.

  


* * *

  


In the end, as sure as any begging would have done, and perhaps a lot quicker than that, Richelieu's preaching summoned Vargas.

When the spy appeared in the cell accompanied by two armed guards, Richelieu did not attempt to hide his satisfaction. Vargas had come to him without the pleasure of having heard the great Cardinal plead.

"I admit I misjudged you," Vargas began. "I mistook you for a clever man, but you have revealed yourself to be very foolish."

"I was under the impression you wanted me to be more talkative."

Something dark flashed in Vargas' eyes, but he regained his composure quickly. "You have only just arrived. Why rush things, when we have got the rest of your life?"

Richelieu said nothing, but felt his mouth tighten.

"I have no doubt that you are going to talk to me more freely later, about everything. But until then there is one thing I must say to you; please, do not preach to the guards, Cardinal. They don't enjoy it. They hear mass from a proper, Spanish, priest. One who would not allow the heretics in his country to live."

"That may be so, but if your men are eager to listen, there is little I can do to stop them while I am locked up in here." Richelieu answered in Spanish. "Or would you deny a condemned man communion with God?"

If Vargas had turned around at that moment, he could have seen the eyes of his guardsmen meet. 

His pleasant tone sounded decidedly more forced now. "If you refused to see reason we can restrain your preaching through physical means."

"You would lay hands on a Cardinal?" Richelieu felt his heart skip a beat. "A man of God?"

"One who has sold himself to the enemies of the true faith?" Vargas, too, had switched to his mother tongue. "One who is Sweden's pimp, and England's whore? Who has taught his King to be lenient with the Huguenots practicing their heresy on his soil?" A smile spread across Vargas' face. "It would be our sacred duty."

"You are bold to spread these lies in front of me."

"Esteemed members of various Catholic orders – true Christians – have been writing and preaching against your policies for years. Who is the real liar, Cardinal?"

Richelieu switched back to French. "I can't tell." He glanced pointedly at the guards. "Can they?"

"Just a fair warning, your Eminence. There is no way out. There is no rescue coming. No one knows you are here. No one even suspects that you are not buried in your tomb, which is why I recommend you do not make your stay here any more unpleasant than it has to be."

Richelieu refused to reply. He preferred not to contemplate any of these matters in front of Vargas.

The spymaster looked him up and down. "I gave you this brazier and the stockings as a courtesy to a Catholic gentleman, but see now that I have been too kind. You're not a Catholic at all. To abuse something so sacred as a man's faith to try and mislead my guards – you are not even human."

Richelieu swallowed. "That is for God to judge." 

Vargas looked uninterested in pressing the matter further, but before his captor could leave, Richelieu took a deep breath. There was something he'd intended to ask. If Vargas wanted him to be more cooperative, perhaps he would consider answering it. 

"Why now, Vargas? Your King's ministers have wanted me dead for years. Did it really take you this long to bribe my physician?"

Vargas stared at him for a long moment.

"Once you're more open to conversation, perhaps I'll tell you."

Once Vargas had left, Richelieu moved closer to the brazier, hoping to dispel the chill that had taken hold of him. 

The idea that he twisted faith into sin was ludicrous of course. Preserving his life and mind could never be against God's will. The fact that Vargas stooped to such low insults only showed that Richelieu's actions had struck a nerve. Despite the threats Richelieu found his resolve much unchanged, as the alternative was to return to the madness of his nightmares. Winning a guard's trust was his best chance of – if not escaping – then at least of relaying a message to the outside world. 

Surely, this would be worth whatever means Vargas could think up to punish him. 

Richelieu shuddered. 

Vargas could threaten to take threaten to take away the brazier or the stockings just as easily as he could make Richelieu go hungry for a few days. Whatever he did, the fact that Richelieu had been given these things in the first place meant that Vargas would do nothing that threatened his life. 

The thought that his life was safe was not much of a comfort when Richelieu thought of the tools the Spanish had invented to torment heretics. Forks and pliers to tear his flesh were among the kinder punishments he could expect.

Sinking to his knees for his evening prayer, Richelieu waited and listened for the guardsmen to continue their eavesdropping. On the following day a guard addressed him as " _Eminencia_ " and Richelieu added a silent prayer for his resolve not to break.

  


* * *

  


"Sire, that is a bad idea." Treville could not remember when he had last felt so uneasy about drawing attention to himself as Louis held court, but it did not stop him from speaking out.

The Comte de Beaufort, who had just asked the King to invest in his shipping enterprise in the new world, shot him an annoyed look – until the King finally spoke up.

"Treville, your role is to guard me, not give financial advice. That is what I have the council for." Louis demonstrably averted his eyes as he continued, "which you, as I recall, are not a part of."

Treville bit his tongue, but it was useless. He could not stay silent. "Precisely," he countered. "The Comte can bring this matter to the attention of the council, who will then advise your Majesty on the wisest course of action."

"Surely his Majesty's wisdom more than suffices to decide such a humble matter." Beaufort beamed at them both, waking the strong desire in Treville to punch him.

Louis had a different reaction. "You are right, my dear Comte. We accept your proposal."

"You were reluctant about a similar proposal by de Rosières last year, Sire."

"A King is free to change his mind, Treville."

"Your Majesty—"

Louis wouldn't let him finish. "Treville, I am well guarded here, don't you have other work to do?"

Treville narrowed his eyes. It was shameful to be dismissed in such a casual fashion, in front of the entire Court. If anyone had had any doubts left about the disfavour Treville suffered, they were cleared up now.

He attempted a graceful bow, as he retreated, but the damage was already done. As he walked out of the room in what was meant to be a calm manner, noblemen turned to whisper into their companion's ears, and ladies hiding their face behind their fans to laugh.

It was not the first time this week. Treville knew the King was purposefully being cruel out of a sense of hurt. But with every passing day, it became increasingly harder to tell himself that Louis didn't mean any of it. The King didn't even like Beaufort much. If only Treville had kept his mouth shut, the King would likely have declined the Comte's proposal. Now the kingdom could blame Treville for the waste of more of the Crown's money. The Queen had not been in attendance to back him up, but considering how much her relationship with the King had cooled since the birth of the Dauphin, she would probably only have made things worse. Lately, she preferred spending time with her son and holding her own Court among what few nobles were loyal to her rather than attend the King's Court gatherings and Louis didn't seem to mind her absence.

Treville rode back to the garrison weighed down by the same worries that had oppressed him for weeks. They had multiplied since Richelieu's death.

At first he had considered the reactivation of the Red Guard a small blessing, even if meant putting good men under Rochefort's command. Having another guard regiment close to the King, whose members didn't have to watch their steps as closely around the monarch as the Musketeers did, should have taken some pressure off his men. 

But things had failed to improve for the musketeers, as had Treville's opinion of Rochefort.

There was no accord between them. No understanding. Even though Treville had abstained from challenging his appointment as Captain of the Red Guards, and the musketeers had stayed clear of him, the Comte had taken every chance to make them look inefficient in front of the King, giving him an opportunity to shine by comparison. 

Treville didn't consider himself particularly superstitious but he had to assume that his regiment had been cursed. The only alternative was to believe that his best men were failing him on purpose. Not only had they failed to properly secure the King's night out from the palace, but Aramis was making increasingly irregular and unpredictable use of his due leave. Most recently, Aramis had not taken the shot that could have saved so many lives, including, in the end, General Alamain's. 

Treville kicked his horse into a canter, but in the narrow streets he had to reign her in again soon. Perhaps, the next time he needed a distraction, he should take the time to let her run in an open field, away from the city.

In retrospect, Rochefort's accusations had been justified, which didn't quench Treville's anger. The Comte had proven very astute in recognising opportunities to point out the flaws in other people to make himself look good. On top of that, the Queen adored her old tutor, and he made the King happy, which was more than could be said of Treville. 

There was little doubt about who be offered the vacant seat on the council next, and Treville readily admitted that if Rochefort wanted the position so much, he was welcome to it.

He knew his men expected greater outrage from him, but he could not muster the strength to oppose Rochefort's influence at Court; he already had to deal with unruly musketeers, an upset King, and a Royal Council waging war on itself all at once. 

The King's remaining favourites and advisors sensed Treville's disfavour like an open wound and delighting in opposing him at every turn in the hopes of securing their King's affections. Although pushback against him was devoid of the eloquence and subtle sarcasm Richelieu had employed to dissect Treville's arguments, their hostility gave him even more reasons to watch his back both on and off duty. It was exhausting.

If Richelieu had still been alive, he would have found a way to keep the courtiers in line so Treville could concentrate on his work. Then again, if Richelieu had been alive, half of Treville's problems would have been gone.

After dismounting in the garrison courtyard and turning his horse over to one of the stable boys, Treville spotted Athos' squad having their dinner at the large table outside the mess. It was a quiet affair. Aramis was absent, as he so often was lately. Only this time he had an excuse, since Treville had sent him to investigate the camp of the rebel leader Emilie. 

The remaining three each looked occupied with their own sorrows. If Treville had been in a more charitable, less self-absorbed mood he might have been able to take a guess at each of their troubles. He'd personally caused at least one of them.

Treville fled up the steps to his office, hoping to slip inside before anyone could take much notice of him.

He stopped halfway up the stairs when he heard Porthos shout. "Captain!"

If his ill luck held up, Ambassador Perales would want a chat next. Should that happen, Treville might just cause the diplomatic incident Rochefort had so narrowly avoided.

Treville turned around and received a bundle of papers from Porthos.

"They arrived for you from Monsieur d'Essart's company while you were gone."

Porthos was frowning and Treville knew his displeasure had nothing to do with the letters' contents. Before Treville had left for the cathedral, Porthos had asked him about the legacy General de Foix had left the him. He had not been satisfied with Treville's attempts to put the topic to rest.

Here was another thing that Richelieu would have done better than him.

"Thank you," Treville said, taking the letters from him. Porthos could have given them to Athos or d'Artagnan to deliver, but he had personally kept them safe instead. Because they had been entrusted to him. 

Treville hesitated for just a moment in case Porthos was going to say something else, but the musketeer merely nodded before turning around to re-join his comrades.

Treville looked after him for a moment, before he slunk into his office, locking the door and flinging the packet onto his desk as soon as he was inside. His throw overshot and the letters slid onto the floor. Treville ignored them and untied his cape instead. One of the knots wouldn't come loose immediately and he kicked his chest of drawers in frustration, cursing at the pain shooting up his toes.

Treville threw his cape to the floor.

Never would he consider it to have been better if de Foix had remained a prisoner instead of being returned to France. And yet, looking at Porthos, the thought stole itself into his mind. It made him sick to his stomach. 

Treville sagged against the wall and sighed.

If there was a curse on the regiment, it was their Captain's melancholy. 

He couldn't even muster the strength to shake his soldiers out of their lethargy. 

Richelieu would have forced him to do it. His sarcasm alone would have forced Treville out of his apathetic state. 

Richelieu had never let his afflictions stop him. Even after he had fallen ill, he had insisted on holding court from his sickbed. Despite his ailing health there had been so much life in him, so much hunger.

Treville pushed away from the wall, walking over to the window. A sense of oppression hung over the garrison like a fog. There was less shouting in the courtyard, less wrestling, less gambling. Less life. 

He thought of the marble face turned towards heaven in the cathedral and banished it from his mind, seeking to replace it with the memory of a flesh and blood smile goading Treville to fight back. He could still do it. It was not too late.

He was not going to sit here and let the reins slip from his fingers even further. 

The garrison was all he had left to fight for, and he wouldn't lose it to petrification. Despite his troubles at court and his private issues concerning Porthos, he still had a job to do. 

Until a Royal decree relieved him of his duties a couple of hours later. He stood in the courtyard, holding the end of his career in his hands. He had waited too long. He had lost. 

Tears pricked as his eyes as he repeated the King's sentence out loud in front of the assembled musketeers. They appeared paralysed with shock, speechless. More of them were taking notice, dropping what they were doing and listening.

Treville couldn't face them. He couldn't cry in front of them. He was—

"Captain," Porthos began, but Treville cut him off.

"No," he said calmly. "Not anymore."

Porthos looked crestfallen and Treville averted his gaze. After all the bad blood that was between him. When the musketeer made a step towards him Treville retreated, heading back to his – former? – office. He forced himself to walk slow. He wouldn't make a scene. He owed the men that much. 

No one followed. 

As soon as Treville was inside, he slumped against the door, sitting down on the floor. He didn't have the energy left to make it further into the room. It was no longer his. Treville dropped the crumpled paper. His home. His men. Louis would give them to someone else. Because Treville had proven unworthy of the trust placed in him by the King, by the musketeers – by the Cardinal. 

When he finally cried he thought he could hear Richelieu laughing about what a sentimental fool he was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Only Treville was left, not yet fifty, but already a relic of a past that had come and gone; its marks on time swept away like sand by the breeze of those who followed._

Pinon was a blessing.

Treville had not been able to keep Richelieu. He had not been able to keep de Foix or Louis, and perhaps he was going to lose Porthos. But, by God, he could still fight.

Once again, Treville inhabited the role he had chosen when he had first come to Paris. Before he had been introduced to court and drawn into the world of its bloody politics. 

He was a soldier once more.

In this little village the loss of his captaincy did not matter. Here he didn't need the King's commission to draw up battle plans, devise tactics, and command from the frontlines. In battle, every move and every shout returned him to an entirely instinctual state of being, driven by reflexes drilled to him by decades of military service. He fought free of court dress, obligations and thought. 

Had he died that day, pierced by an enemy sword or a musket ball, he would have died happy. 

Rochefort and Louis ceased to exist during the exhilarating rush of the fight. 

_This_ was what he had left his parents' provincial estates for. _This_ was the means he had chosen to write his name into the books of history.

Perhaps he had grown slower with age. Perhaps he was reckless to join the fray as readily as he did. But his musketeers surrounded him and protected him the same way that he protected them. 

In Pinon, Treville did not fear that his musketeers misplaced their loyalty in an aging, useless former Captain. He saw the same adoration they had shown him countless times before following him into battle, and after he had led them out of it.

It made up the sum of his life's achievements.

Athos' revived spirits and Aramis' wild grins had the power to make Treville believe the last few weeks had never happened. In Pinon he could believe that he had not failed to defend himself from Louis' tantrums, or retreated before Rochefort.

Lost in the rush of battle, he didn't even miss Armand. 

Until the fight ended and they returned to Paris. To the Court that had rejected him. To the cathedral that housed bare bones in a cold marble tomb. To the garrison that was no longer his to command. Someone else would soon hang his hat in Treville's office. 

The roots Treville had grown had been ripped from the earth. He would have to return to his family's estates in Gascony, the failed son returning to his beginnings to safeguard the loathsome country mansion for his brother's heirs. 

Troisville seemed to Treville as far away as any place in France could be from Paris and all she possessed, from all that he had once held dear. 

And worse than that, as they drew closer to Paris, instead of Aramis' smiles he only saw Porthos' looks of reprobation.

The further their group passed from the faubourgs into the heart of the city, the faster Treville could sense his spirit drain, like blood from an open vein. His musketeers grew quieter with every step their horses took, drifting away from each other, each lost in his own worries; drifting apart.

Back at the garrison, Treville went straight to his office. Closing the door behind him, he took in the state of his belongings as if seeing them for the first time. 

It had always been Richelieu who had invited Treville to their private meetings. Never the other way around. 

At the Palais Cardinal everything had been more opulent, bigger – including the bed. 

Treville knew exactly how long it had been since the last invitation.

The usual shouts and whinnies from the courtyard wafted into the small office from outside. Treville tilted his head, only half taking in the sounds of his musketeers at work. The garrison had returned to its usual mood, as if seeing their former Captain riding out in search for Athos and returning him triumphant had opened a festering wound.

Yet, this did not hold true for everyone at the garrison. Aramis had disappeared again as soon as he had turned in his horse to be stabled. D'Artagnan was taking out his woes on the practice targets, and Porthos had volunteered for guard duty despite the exertions of the day. Did he need a quiet, monotonous task to order his thoughts? Did he intend to express his discontent at his Captain's lethargy through his zeal? 

Treville could see him standing watch over the gates, carrying himself proud in spite of the dishonesty and betrayal that his commander had shown him.

How long would it be before Treville stopped fooling any of these men? 

He closed his eyes, shedding his uniform cloak in the private gloom of his quarters.

He was the last of his time. De Foix and his soldier brothers; their Captain; the old King and his Marshals… all the great of the age, Schomberg and Montmorency, even Richelieu… they were all dead. Marie de Medici dwelled in exile. Only Treville was left, not yet fifty, but already a relic of a past that had come and gone; its marks on time swept away like sand by the breeze of those who followed. 

Not a single soul was left to remember the scars of old. 

It was the soldier's lot. You lived until life vanished.

Treville had once presumed _his_ life would end on the battlefield. Now it looked like exile would claim him, washing away his footprints long before death had a chance to. 

Treville dropped his cape to the floor. 

After Paris had stopped being a home to de Foix, the general had spent a good decade offering his skills to their foreign allies. 

Perhaps Lucie could refer him.

The sound of the door opening made Treville turn around. Athos appeared beside him, offering him a half full cup of spirits. 

"Aren't you on duty?" Treville asked although he took the cup.

Athos shrugged. "Are you?" 

Treville's expression soured and something in Athos' eyes glinted at the change. 

"I swapped with de la Croix. Nothing there for His Majesty to take offense at. For once." 

Treville grunted before taking a drink. There was not much of a fire to it, but it was good enough for this early in the evening. One could always trust Athos to find something serviceable to drink. He grunted again, this time in approval of the alcohol. There was little else to approve of. 

"I watched him grow up, if you can believe it." Treville watched the amber liquid swill around the cup before he drained it. 

"He was shy. Isolated. Marie didn't want a Court to form around Louis that could have encouraged him to stand up for himself and end her regency. It was just us guard soldiers, and a few nobles she deemed too unimportant and easily bribed to be a threat."

Athos refilled their cups in silence. 

"He'll wonder why there's a former Comté now governed by an innkeeper-turned-mayor in his heartland," Treville said.

"He'll be happy once he learns of it," Athos mused, scratching his chin on his cup in thought. Once again Treville couldn't help but see de Foix in the musketeer's gruff, honest demeanour. He took another drink.

"Less nobility to support the opposition, less land and power out of the King's hands. Bertrand knows his letters, and together the villagers knew enough of their rights to figure out how to defend them, which is more than can be said of some of the nobility's sons," Athos continued, and his lips stretched into a sardonic smile. 

"Even his daughter had better sense than Renart's offspring. The King can make Bertrand an Officer of the Crown, collect his taxes, and declare every nobleman who tries to take la Fère from him an enemy of the state. It would mean even more land and titles for the King to confiscate and bestow upon some unlucky sod whose loyalty to the crown is ensured by their powerlessness. The old Cardinal would have approved." Athos paused to make a face. "And to think that not so long ago we believed we'd be better off without Richelieu."

"Ludicrous," Treville agreed and emptied his cup.

  


* * *

  


They came for Richelieu shortly afterwards. He'd been kneeling, writing a closing line for a potential play when he heard the door was unbolted and thrown open. At once he was ordered to stand.

Richelieu took a moment to wipe out the new lines with a fresh layer of coal to prevent them from being read, but it proved a moment too long for the guards' short temper: He was pulled to his feet only to be knocked the floor by a punch to his jaw. Sight and hearing abandoned him for precious seconds. The next thing he knew he was being dragged out of his cell by his upper arms before he had even gotten back onto his feet.

The two guards dragged him along a dark corridor; up a small flight of steps and down another, before they opened a door that looked as heavy as the one on Richelieu's cell. Upon entering this new dungeon, the guards dropped Richelieu onto his knees.

He remained in that position for a moment, just to catch his breath. His jaw throbbed, but Richelieu stopped himself from rubbing it, not trusting his hands not to shake. 

"What is the meaning of this?" he snapped.

Looking up, he found himself inside a room without windows, lit by lanterns and a brazier resting in one corner. The orange light and cracking coals created a foreboding half-gloom not unlike the one that Richelieu imagined illuminating the City of Dis.¹

Vargas was already here.

"Ready to judge the dead?"

The Spymaster ignored him and addressed the guards behind Richelieu. "Please, help our guest to stand."

Once more they grabbed Richelieu by the arms and pulled him onto his feet. Without the guards' support he might have collapsed again. Now that he could get a good look around the room he would have liked to. 

_Lord, give me strength in the face of my enemies._

Shelves and benches furnished two sides of the room, carrying an array of metal tools that shone in the firelight. An iron spike had been driven into one of the other walls. There were shackles hanging from it.

Richelieu slowly returned his gaze to Vargas. An empty, waist-high table stood between them.

"You can't be serious," Richelieu rasped.

"With some of our guests, we have to explain what each device does before we begin. Sometimes we even include a demonstration. But you recognise all of these, don't you?" 

Richelieu forced himself to look. It was much too late to close his eyes now. There was far too much to see; a sharpened iron rod on the bench nearest to the brazier drew his attention, followed by a set of enormous shears that glowed as its blades reflected the sudden lick of a flame. 

The sight made Richelieu's heart jump. Vargas needed him to tell his secrets, he reminded himself. Even though the spymaster wanted him to stop preaching to the guards he still needed the Cardinal to be able to talk. He would not have Richelieu's tongue cut. 

_Unless Vargas intended for him to write instead._

Averting his gaze, his eyes caught a movement to the right. A fourth man had entered the room. He looked grim-faced and heavy-set, dressed in simple, dark coloured linens. 

_Of course._ It didn't do to stain one's finery with blood. 

"This is Miguel," Vargas said. Richelieu heard him as if from a great distance, over a sea of fog. "He is an expert in making people reconsider their mistakes."

"I expected nothing less."

"He was kind enough to preselect a couple of tools after I told him what was required."

Miguel placed a burlap sack onto the table. Going by the metallic clunking sound it made, whatever was in it had to be heavy. The sack was followed by a lighter bag, before, finally, he retrieved a tool from one of the shelves. He unpacked them one by one. 

The first instrument, sported a pear shaped, segmented body of polished metal the size of a fist. The pear was set on a long screw. At the turn of the screw, the segments would separate outwards, increasing the area of the victim's body to be stretched. 

"I'm not surprised that one draws your eye. We adopted it from your countrymen."

Richelieu froze, keeping his eyes on the table. He refused to look at Vargas, let alone reply to him. There was no hidden meaning in the Spaniard's words. Vargas was merely trying to rile him. _He couldn't possibly know…_

The pear could be used in various fashions to punish a number of different offenses against man or God; insertion into the victim's mouth was only the most common. Personally, Richelieu had never – not on any of his prisoners. Not this one. The pear's _other_ common use was always fatal. It was used on people like him and –

Richelieu tore his eyes away. 

Next to the pear lay the item Miguel had retrieved from the shelves. It was a metal bar, the ends of which each separated into a two-pronged fork. Richelieu recognised the device as a favourite tool of the Inquisition. They used it to punish those who uttered whatever the priest in charge considered heresy. A leather strap would be threaded through the thin, rectangular slots at its sides, which would be used to tie the instrument around the victim's neck, holding the prongs in place under the victim's chin and on the breastbone.

Next to the fork lay two flat, broad semi-circles of heavy iron - the two halves of a neck brace. Richelieu had never seen this device in use before, but he knew of it, and its appearance left nothing to the imagination: Long, pointed iron spikes had been driven through the neck brace at regular intervals. Grooves on each of the two large pieces indicated where they could be bolted together to form a collar that cut the throat and neck of its wearer every time they moved their head.

"Do you have any preferences? A favourite tool?"

Richelieu stared at Vargas, his jaw gone slack. But of course Vargas was serious. He wanted him to choose.

Richelieu swallowed.

"You must be mad if you believe I'm going tell you anything worthwhile if you go through with this."

"I haven't brought you here to loosen your tongue. On the contrary, I would prefer if you came to realise when it is best to keep silent."

Richelieu's gaze flickered across the tools. 

"I do," he said, swallowing his pride. He would not be made complicit in his own torture.

"After our last meeting, I am afraid I do not believe you. Not without a demonstration of what happens when you disregard my advice."

Richelieu felt cold all over.

"So what's it to be?" Vargas spread his hand over the pear and Richelieu prayed he didn't see him flinch. 

"No, not that one. It's too French." Vargas pulled his hand back and sent Miguel a disapproving look. "Besides," he said in Spanish. "With that thing in his mouth it wouldn't be much of a choice for our Cardinal to keep quiet." 

Richelieu thought that talking did not seem a particularly comfortable prospect with any of the other devices either. 

"You have fallen silent again, Cardinal."

"You don't need my help to choose."

"Now, no false modesty. I'm certain you were considerate enough to always offer a choice to your own guests."

 _I had people for that._

Since Richelieu stayed silent Vargas turned back towards the torturer who had watched their exchange impassively. 

"What do you think, Miguel?" Vargas eyed the neck brace. "A beautiful necklace for the Cardinal?"

"No!"

The word had left his mouth before Richelieu realised he had spoken. 

"Put it on him."

"No!" Instinct made Richelieu brace himself against the guards dragging him towards the table. 

"No!" _Please._

"What was that, Cardinal?"

Richelieu bit his tongue in self-disgust. He was not going to beg. He closed his eyes in anticipation. 

_It was only pain. Only his body would be mutilated._

"You prefer the fork?"

Richelieu moved his head slightly. He didn't nod, but Vargas must have interpreted the gesture that way.

"You shall have your wish."

Richelieu's legs were stiff as the guards led him forward and shackled him to the wall, facing the room.

"You _will_ pay for this."

Vargas shrugged. "Let it all out. Shout, spit. It is going to be a while before you speak again. If you are wise."

One of the guards unlaced the front of Richelieu's shirt, pushing its collar away to bare his neck. The other guard grabbed his chin, lifting his head, so that Miguel could position the pronged ends of the fork beneath his chin and on his unprotected sternum. 

Richelieu fought to keep his breath calm when he felt Miguel tighten the leather strap around his throat. He swallowed, relaxed his jaw. Already he could feel the fork press into his skin. 

"What a sight."

The men stepped back, allowing Vargas to examine their work. Richelieu tried to banish the shame from his face as Vargas looked him over. 

"There is a man, one of our more recent guests…" Vargas paused. "I would have enjoyed reintroducing you, but you were still delirious with fever when he left. He is in Paris now, at the side of his old protégé, my exalted King's beloved sister."

Richelieu could feel his heart beat faster as Vargas' words stirred his own memory, but he had to keep still.

"He would have enjoyed seeing you like this," Vargas mused. "I may have to draw him a picture. The good Comte de Rochefort."

Closing his eyes, Richelieu took a steadying breath. When he looked up again, Vargas was clasping his hands in front of him in what almost looked like an apologetic gesture.

"The last time we spoke, you asked me why I had chosen this precise moment to arrange your transfer here. Of course, matters at your Palais could have been arranged much sooner, but Rochefort spent quite a while here before he decided to join us. Even after we told him of your betrayal he resisted our persuasion, at first. I'm sure you can figure out the rest, given time." Vargas shrugged again. "I am curious to hear your opinions on the matter, but I recommend you do not open your mouth for a while."

After he finished speaking, Vargas took another moment to take in his henchmen's handiwork before he walked out of the dungeon, followed by his guards and torturer, leaving the lanterns burning. Richelieu attempted to take a deep breath once the door had shut behind them, but the movement drove the prongs of the fork deeper into his skin. He would have shouted, but of course that was impossible. He could only grind his teeth.

Rochefort was a traitor, an agent of Spain, and free in Paris. And there was no one at Court with the knowledge to expose him. Richelieu was without a means to warn them. 

He couldn't even move his head without the fork pricking his skin. And this was only the least of the instruments of torture in Vargas' dungeon.

Had Vargas put Rochefort into this very room after his capture? The idea that mere months before these same shackles might have held Rochefort was almost as unsettling as the room itself. Wherever he lay his eyes, Richelieu caught a glimpse of iron rods, of pliers, a rope, and he couldn't help but wonder what Rochefort looked like now. What marks had Vargas carved into his skin?

Richelieu shuddered and immediately regretted the motion when the fork scratched his skin. He sucked in a shallow breath. At least there was no one around to see his humiliation.

Five years ago Richelieu had delivered his spy into Vargas' hands. Now they had switched places. Sometime during his stay in Vargas' dungeon Rochefort had stopped being a prisoner and became another instrument to inflict pain on his enemies. Richelieu could hardly fathom how someone as shrewd as Vargas could try and add someone as mad and volatile as that man to his box of tools and not expect the worst. 

Rochefort believed in taking blood for blood. He possessed no vision and no loyalty to his home country. If he truly had been released and returned to France he would be wanting revenge any cost, and as a Spanish agent he would have the means to take it. Right at this moment, Rochefort could be melting the heart of his old friend Queen Anne by telling her all sorts of sad stories of his cruel abuse by his Spanish enemies. The marks of a heretic's fork under his chin, barely concealed by a beard, would only serve to make his story more believable.

The thought of Rochefort using his influence with the Queen to wheedle himself into the King's inner circle sent chills down Richelieu's spine. Louis would be in a vulnerable position if he hadn't found a new First Minister yet. A dashing tale of escape from a Spanish prison would impress the King, as it would most of the Courtiers who revelled in gossip. They would queue up to befriend the hero of the hour, hoping some of his glory would rub off on them. 

None of them would be able to guess the real story. They would invite the wolf to feast amongst them. 

Richelieu wanted to shudder, to shout, but he had to stand still, chin up. He could not even comfortably swallow, despite how the idea of Rochefort entering Louis' inner circles and gaining easy access to the King dried out his mouth. 

The Queen would certainly see her old friend often. If her child had been born yet… Richelieu gritted his teeth.

Surely, Treville would not be blinded by Rochefort's falseness? Surely he'd be able to see through him and quell any treason before it spread?

Richelieu closed his eyes. He had to stay calm. The King was safe as long as his Captain remained at his side, and it was impossible for Rochefort, for anyone really, to drive Treville away from Louis. 

Richelieu could feel himself smile faintly. _Faithful Jean_ , he thought. _Faithful and strong_. So many nobles had long since made a mockery of their family mottos. But not Treville.² He had striven to live the ideal he had set for himself since the first time he had set foot into Paris.

Treville would be suspicious of any man at Court whose favour rose too quickly. He would never allow anyone to get close to Louis so easily. Even should Rochefort manage it, any of his attempts to influence royal policies would be met with scrutiny and fierce opposition by the musketeers' watchful Captain. 

Richelieu rested his head against the wall, chin up, indulging himself in remembering some of their past arguments. Their verbal sparring, the rivalry and competition, had been what had first driven them towards each other, spurring them to excellence by making them try and outfox the other. 

Finding an accord that enabled them to work together instead of against each other had changed the nature of their arguments, but not their frequency or ferocity. It was part of who they were together. At times it had been the source of an earth-shaking feud, but at other times it had simply been part of the show, of the posturing they adopting for no one's benefit but each other's. 

The Treville who could stand against the First Minister, and who could navigate Court politics for years and still keep his sense of honour intact, could never be swayed by Rochefort. A man like Treville, whose sense of morality and strength of conviction could influence even Richelieu's decision-making process could never be fooled by an opportunist like Rochefort. 

_The Comte would have to kill Treville to get him away from the King._

Richelieu jerked, causing a drop of blood to well up. It ran down his throat slowly, from his chin to his chest.

Rochefort would not succeed. He couldn't. Treville was safe, surrounded by his own stupidly loyal bodyguard of soldiers. He couldn't possibly…

Suppressing a sob, Richelieu forced his bleeding chin back up.

Again, it appeared Vargas had beaten him with his own tricks. It was impossible to think of Rochefort loose in Paris and remain sill.

_His own tricks._

Richelieu felt tears of frustration prick at the corners of his eyes.

These weren't _his_ tricks. 

He closed his eyes against the gaunt face of Cluzet that appeared before him; hair thin, his cheeks hollow, eyes growing dimmer by the year. 

Almost six years now.

_"Total solitude. Unlimited time to reflect. I almost envy you."_

Richelieu tugged at his shackles, growling. Shaking off the memory was as impossible as shaking his head.

These weren't his tricks. He had never laid a hand upon the man. He saved the torture for spies, informants and traitors, not … not… 

Richelieu swallowed and the fork dug deeper into his skin. 

Not mere victims to reasons of state.

What Vargas did to Richelieu wasn't intended to win information from him, but to render him an obedient tool. 

_Like Rochefort._

The realisation caused him to tremble. He couldn't be left mad, broken. Vargas had to be keeping him alive for some other reason. 

Another drop of blood ran down his throat to mingle with the blood from the wound on his chest.

Richelieu suppressed a groan, forcing himself to stand still.

Perhaps the questioning would follow later.

  


* * *

  


1 Dis is the name of the Infernal City that encompasses the lowest circles of Hell in Dante's Divine Comedy. 

2 Fidelis et Fortis was the family motto of the historical Treville.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dying alone had been hard enough the first time._

With no windows to let in the daylight, time in the dungeon passed uncounted.

The only measurement Richelieu was still aware of was pain. His back and neck ached from standing up for so long. The chains allowed him to sit against the wall with his knees bent, but Richelieu was wary of relaxing his back even for a moment, since the fork punished every extraneous movement of his spine. Despite his exhaustion he had to remain standing, unless he wished to fresh blood to his chest to cover that which had already dried.

His limbs ached, fire ran along his spine and made his eyes water, and dust coated the inside of his throat. Every swallow, instead of relieving his thirst, only served to scratch his skin on the iron prongs.

The continuous ache and thirst had combined to kill any coherent thoughts long ago. Richelieu believed that he would have passed out if the stab of the fork didn't jerk him awake every time his head dropped.

When his jailers finally returned to unstrap the fork and release him from the shackles, he collapsed. He lay in a heap on the dungeon's cold stone floor, shaking, until consciousness abandoned him and he was allowed to rest.

  


* * *

  


Upon waking, Richelieu thought he remembered the reviving taste of watered wine running down his throat. He was able to move his head without pain; the fork was gone. He was free of the dungeon, saved.

Blinking, Richelieu realised that it must have been the return of daylight that had awoken him. The realisation made his heart lift before he could stop it. 

With his conscience returned the ache in his muscles, and with the pain came the realisation that he wasn't saved. Nothing had changed. He was in his old cell. There was the same brazier burning in the centre of the room. The same window. The same hellish, grey light. 

The sight of the cell drove him to tears.

His defiance had earned him nothing. Except – he touched his chest – except for the bandages wrapped around his torso and his jaw and head, preventing him from opening his mouth wide. 

Richelieu shut his eyes again and took a steadying breath. The bandages reeked of herbal salves. Had he exchanged one deathbed for another? He doubted he should be so lucky.

It was only later, after he had lain immobile and stared at the ceiling for some time, that he realised what it was that had made the cell look so new and the walls so different to give him hope when he had first opened his eyes; the writing on the walls had been wiped away. 

Richelieu turned his head towards the brazier. A fresh stick of pressed charcoal lay on the floor next to it, as if it had been laid out for him, waiting for a repeat performance of Act One. 

(And afterwards? A repeat performance in the dungeon? Until Vargas was satisfied with the ending to the play?)

Richelieu curled up facing the wall next to his cot and closed his eyes against its emptiness.  
He took another deep breath, attempting to calm himself, but the skin underneath the bandages ached, and the stink of the salves bit his eyes and nose. 

Curled up, bandaged, cowering – Vargas would be delighted.

He longed to return to dreamless unconsciousness. But when sleep took him away, the nightmares came, returning him to the same badly lit cell. He tried to look around, expecting to see Cluzet, but he couldn't move his head. There was a leather strap around his throat and it tightened like a garrotte. 

Richelieu awoke in darkness, gasping, feeling the prongs of the fork prick his throat, but as he lifted a hand to his throat he found only the stinking bandages. _Just a dream._

Lying down again, he closed his eyes, dislodging the tears clinging to his lashes. He wanted nothing so much as to sleep, dreamlessly, but now that he was awake he could not stop seeing Cluzet's face.

 _I'm not as cruel as you,_ Vargas had said. 

Richelieu scoffed into his blanket. He was nothing like Vargas. He didn't play games with his prisoners once he had locked them up. _Not really._

_"Your former master, the Duke, is in Paris, to sign a treaty that will bind France and Savoy together forever. A historic moment, I'm sure you'll agree."_

Richelieu could see the former Chancellor before him, as if he were sitting on his cot. The last time Richelieu had seen Cluzet, his skin had been waxen, his hair brittle and grey. But Richelieu had never laid a hand upon him.

The Duke had come looking for his friend, ready to tear apart all of Paris if it was the only way for them to be reunited. But Richelieu had kept Cluzet hidden well. 

_I'm not as cruel as you,_ Vargas had said. _To leave them hope._

Richelieu had told Cluzet exactly what the Duke was doing. How he was still searching, five years. While Cluzet had cursed him, Richelieu had claimed to long for the isolation of a cell – to be free from his responsibilities for a time.

He had gotten his wish, but there was no Duke looking for him. There was no one rushing through a prison to find him, shouting themselves hoarse. No one was calling his name, their voice growing harsh with increasing panic. 

The absence of hope Vargas prided himself on did not comfort Richelieu. 

The absence of hope was despair. 

Richelieu's movements pulled at the wounds left by the fork as he wrapped the woollen blanket around himself, shuddering. The pinpricks of pain made his eyes water.

How long had he been here? Why had nobody come to save him?

The piece of coal, hard to make out in the dusky morning light, was still waiting for Richelieu to pick it up, inviting him to fill up the walls until not even writing could keep his mind from running itself ragged in circles. Until he reached out to the guards again. Until Vargas took him back to his torture chamber. 

There was no rescue beyond one he instigated himself.

_He was nothing like Vargas._

Richelieu could refuse to play. He could refuse anything, everything. Ever. He could simply lie down here. 

He sighed. Dying alone had been hard enough the first time.

No one could have prevented the King from visiting his First Minister on his deathbed, but he had not stayed to watch Richelieu die. Even if he had tried, Richelieu, in his boundless arrogance, would have sent Louis away to preserve his dignity, not knowing what he was giving up. 

He had never known true loneliness before that last night of his life.

There had been no way for Treville to stay. There had been no way for Treville to return to his side after their last kiss. _There had been no way for Treville to protect him._

Richelieu sighed again, lifting a hand to touch his lips, unable to shake off the memory of that kiss. The muscles in his arm ached again when he moved it, but a little pain was not too high a price to pay for the memory. 

Richelieu closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek against the hard mattress. 

He was prepared to spend five-hundred years in purgatory and not demur, if only he knew that Heaven's light lay at the end. If he only knew for certain that he would return to claim his place by the King's side. He'd take back France from the rebellious nobles, the Court from the flatterers, and he'd take back Treville. 

It would be a different kiss they shared upon their reunion. This kiss would be hungry, devouring, destructive of all mind and thought. They'd inaugurate the bed in the freshly reclaimed Palais Cardinal in the basest, most divine manner they knew. 

Richelieu couldn't decide whether he would prefer Treville on his back or on his knees in that moment. They'd have to try it all in sequence. 

There was an empire waiting for Richelieu outside of this cell and whether Treville knew it or not, the Captain was guarding it for him. 

Richelieu's back stiffened. If anyone were to find him, surely Treville would? Treville would raze this place to the ground to free him. If he knew where he was, if he knew of the humiliation he suffered, Treville would lift Richelieu out of his prison over Vargas' bleeding corpse.

A clean stab between the ribs – Vargas would be so lucky.

Richelieu sighed into his mattress. Treville would sooner or later attract Rochefort's wrath, having no idea of the Comte's true nature. Soon there would be no one left who could come looking for him. Unless Richelieu could find a way to give them a push. 

Although groaning from a thousand aches Richelieu sat up, turning his attention back to the charcoal stick waiting for him. His limbs felt as heavy as lead but he forced himself out of the cot regardless, flinching when his feet touched the naked stone floor. 

Vargas had rescinded his right to stockings.

Gritting his teeth, Richelieu walked over to the brazier and picked up the coal. He could either start over, or give in and die here, abandoning that which he spent a lifetime to win. Abandoning Louis. Abandoning Treville.

Every step he felt the rough, cool texture of the floor under his feet as he crossed it barefoot like a peasant. 

_Time for Act One to end_ , he thought as he regarded the empty walls, the charcoal smudging his fingertips. 

Besides, _hell awaits the suicide_.

  


* * *

  


At first, Richelieu restricted himself to writing. Provoking Vargas while he was still covered in bandages seemed to him a reckless idea. It may only have been his body that Vargas had hurt; this mortal husk whose fragility had been such an inconvenience to him all his life, but how was he going to walk out of here if he goaded Vargas into crippling him, or worse? Already his hands appeared to him less steady than before he had been shackled to the wall.

Only after the bandages had been removed did he think about taking up preaching again, writing down ideas for a sermon in between the poetry. 

He didn't get a chance to wonder whether the preaching would have made any difference.

Since he had been left to stew in silence and loneliness on every preceding night after the evening meal, Richelieu was immediately able tell something was amiss when guards entered his cell again, when the dishes had been taken away a while ago.

Unaware of any misstep on his part, Richelieu made sure he met them on his feet this time. It didn't stop them from doubling him over with a punch to his stomach, making him retch. 

Once again he was dragged down the long, dark hallway, up a flight of stairs and down another. Richelieu did not need to see that they were headed for the same dungeon as before for his blood to run cold. 

The same heavy-looking door was thrown open before him, but this time the guards didn't drop him. This time, they held him upright and dragged him towards the table. Richelieu was given no time to check whether the shackles on the wall were still there, or whether Vargas had been waiting for them before they bent him over the table top. Another guard picked up his legs and within moments Richelieu was prostrate on the table, his arms bent behind his back as the guards tied his wrists together. 

He tried to kick, but they held on to his naked feet and secured his ankles to the table. The two guards at his head lightly placed their hands on his shoulders, causing a chill to run down his spine that made his toes curl. 

"I am sorry to see you here again so soon, Cardinal." So Vargas was already here. Richelieu twisted his neck, but he couldn't see him. Vargas must have been standing right behind him.

Richelieu rested his cheek against the table and swallowed. Something told him the pain in his wrists would soon appear negligible. 

"Is this how you expect to have our conversation?" 

"I'm not so foolish as to expect you to betray state secrets to save yourself from a little pain. No, consider this a preventative measure. We can't have you believe that you'll be allowed to repeat your mistakes."

Richelieu sucked in his breath when something hard and thin began stroking the skin of his exposed soles. His feet twitched in response to the touch, but he couldn't move them away. 

"Hold him down, please," Vargas said in Spanish. 

Rough hands pressed Richelieu down onto the table and the next breath he took turned into a gasp as a strike connected with the soles of his feet, sending a shockwave racing up his spine. Another stroke followed before his skin had even begun to sting from the first hit. The cracking sound of bare skin being struck rang in his ears like a pistol shot.

Richelieu held his breath in anticipation of the next stroke until he saw Vargas step into his field of view. He tapped a cane lightly against his prisoner's upturned cheek. It was smooth, thin and straight. Richelieu expelled a trembling breath. 

"You see, Cardinal, I realized I had made a mistake believing you would change your ways after I gave you that first incentive." The tip of the cane lightly tapped against Richelieu's skin, underneath his right eye. "It was foolish of me to leave you without alternatives to occupy your time. You might be a cold-hearted tyrant, incapable of basic human virtues, but even a dog in his kennel needs a bone or he turns to worrying his master for entertainment." 

Stroking the tip of the cane over Richelieu's chin and lips Vargas continued: "We're going to find something else for you to play with. Eventually." Drawing the cane away sharply, Vargas stepped back from the table again. "But first, allow me to demonstrate what happens if you refuse to be persuaded." 

Richelieu was prepared for this next strike. He stayed quiet this time, but could not stop his eyes from watering. His skin burned.

"You seek any contact again –" a strike with the cane punctuated Vargas' words, making Richelieu clench his teeth so hard he worried they might break. 

"Any contact with my guards –" another crack of the cane set his feet on fire – "and we see each other again. In this room."

"That's the aim, you imbecile!" Richelieu pressed the words out from between his teeth and was rewarded with another strike that made him grit his teeth. He tasted blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his cheek.

"But you will be the one to hold the whip?" Vargas sounded calm, collected. He must have handed the cane to Miguel or one of his other cronies to deliver the punishment. 

The next strike drew another gasp from Richelieu's lips, sending a plea to heaven along with it. He realised he must have spoken out loud when he heard Vargas chuckle.

Another strike to his feet set fire along his spine, all the way up to his skull. Richelieu yelped. Something had to break soon. There couldn't be any skin left on the soles of his feet.

The next strike left Richelieu panting. He could feel his heart pounding in tandem with the pulsing pain in his feet. 

"Is it God who answers your prayers? Are you certain? Or is it the Deceiver?"

Vargas suddenly sounded so close. Richelieu opened his eyes – he hadn't been aware that he had closed them – and saw the Spaniard right in front of his face. 

"You are a cold-hearted, calculating tyrant who twists faith and hope – all Christian virtues – to make Dukes and Kings dance like puppets."

Richelieu didn't answer. He needed to catch his breath before– but already the cane sent another jolt of pain through his body. He groaned. 

"You did not choose this profession to save souls. You wanted power. You keep mistresses to amuse yourself, but power is the only thing you love."

And another stroke made Richelieu's eyes sting with tears. 

"You thought you were being clever, outsmarting me, turning the guards against their duty. But have you ever seen a dog collar his master?" 

Another crack. Richelieu thought he could feel his skin hanging off his feet in stripes.

"No. It is the other way round, of course. The master who allows himself to be led by his dog is no master at all. You know what happens to the dog who attempts to lead his master about, don't you? It gets beaten." 

The next stroke of the cane made Richelieu cry out.

"Do you understand, who the master is in this analogy, and who the dog?"

Vargas leaned closer. Another stroke and a gasp of pain underlined his meaning. 

"Do you understand?" 

Richelieu would have gladly met Vargas' stare, but his vision had turned to blackness and stars for the moment.

"Do you? Tell me who the master is, Cardinal." 

Richelieu whimpered. He couldn't stop himself. "Hell awaits the wrathful and conceited," he muttered.

Another crack broke the air. Richelieu cried out.

"Tell me."

 _They're just words_ , Richelieu told himself. Then why did they stick to the roof of his mouth?

Another crack. Richelieu yelped. He screwed his eyes shut. 

_Now would be a good time to show up, Jean._

"Tell me!"

Another cry of pain.

"Tell me!"

"You're the master!" Richelieu tried to catch his breath, hoping to choke on it.

There was silence in the chamber, save for Richelieu's panting. Closing his eyes again, he rested his cheek against the table top, shivering. 

"And," Vargas continued after a long moment, wonder in his voice, "who is the dog?"

Richelieu breathed in deeply. "Rochefort is." He braced himself, eyes screwed shut, but there was no crack and no impact. 

"Is that so?" 

Richelieu's eyes flew open. He licked his bleeding lips. When had he bitten them? He hadn't felt any pain. Everything felt numb next to the stinging fire in his feet.

"Your dog," he breathed, amazed that Vargas had decided to let him talk, "is leading you all over Paris. If you truly believe you can control him—" Richelieu paused to catch his breath, before Miguel or whoever held the cane had a chance to strike him again. "He's already got you by the neck."

"Is that the best you can do?" Vargas made sure Richelieu could see the exaggerated disappointment on his face. "Like you, all Rochefort requires to be brought to heel is the right bone."

"No bone is large enough for a rabid dog."

Vargas rolled his eyes and slowly strolled out of Richelieu's field of vision. 

"He will never forget what you did to him, Vargas." Richelieu's words ran together at the speed of his heartbeat. "He will never forgive you for what you turned him into. He played along so you would let him off the leash. He's beyond your collars and threats now." Richelieu thought of spikes and metal rings. "He doesn't care for your lead." As Richelieu spoke, he could hear the rising panic seeping into his voice. He couldn't stop it. But he couldn't stop talking either. "He'll rip apart everything he can sink his teeth into, including your schemes." 

The cane stroked the soles of his feet lightly and Richelieu almost choked on his own spit, having intended to speak again in the same moment. He swallowed a curse. 

"Whatever you hope Rochefort is going to win for you in France, he will lose it again just to hurt you. Once he has bitten off all he can in Paris and pissed on what is left, he will come for you." 

"I am not concerned." Vargas managed to sound bored. "I know what to do with unruly dogs." 

There was a pause in which Richelieu could just imagine the spymaster turning to his torturer. 

"Strip him."

Richelieu shouted when the ties at his wrists were cut and the guards pulled his arms forward to tie his wrists to the table on either side of his face before they ripped off his clothes, leaving him naked. 

Richelieu gritted his teeth, but knew he was helpless to resist. The first strike to his newly exposed skin made him cry out.

"Rochefort knows exactly who is responsible for all the years he spent with me."

The strokes ripped open his backside, one by one. 

"But I wonder, do your other victims know it was you who sent them to their doom?"

It started with a stinging sensation as it had on his soles. 

"Your last mistress – what happened to her? You didn't even leave us time to introduce her to one of my Parisian friends."

The stinging sensation soon turned into a continuous ache, punctuated by fresh stabs of pain that ripped through him whenever another stroke connected with soft, ripping skin, and soon, his flesh. 

"The Comtesse de Larroque – burned at the stake at your behest, for witchcraft. I would congratulate you on your determination to exterminate a heretic, if only that were truly what you killed her for. And she was not the first you murdered in that way, was she? Burned at the stake for false charges of heresy, when all you really were after was money."

Richelieu did not respond. Vargas, the guards, – they all disappeared behind the shroud of agony that had wrapped itself around a red, open carcass that Richelieu vaguely recognised as his own body. 

"A few of years ago Savoy's chancellor went missing. I wonder, where did he disappear to? Where did the rumours come from that our troops had attacked a musketeer camp the same night?"

Richelieu thought his backside and thighs felt wet. Weeping.

"What I do to you pales in comparison to your sins. No amount of punishment can ever hope to balance the despair you wrought."

The cane cut him open, stripping the flesh from his bones, for the devils to feast on. 

_Blasphemers and sodomites lay stretched out on the sands of hell, set alight by an everlasting rain of fire.¹_

"How many people did you have to kill to get to Cluzet? How many men lie dead because of your ambition? How many innocents have you devoured to sate your hunger for power?"

The devils lacerated Richelieu's exposed flesh with searing wounds and sealed them with burning tar and boiling salt water.

"How great are your sins, Cardinal?"

Hellfire leaping at his skin, Richelieu became aware that he was blinking away tears. 

He was lying on the burning sands beyond the infernal city, paying for his blasphemy.

By the time the caning stopped – stopped! – Richelieu was sobbing. 

If Vargas addressed him again he didn't hear it over the sound of his panting and the pounding heartbeat that clogged up his ears.

Shadows appeared next to him, on either side of the table, taking away the light. The sackcloth the infernal guards put over his head robbed him of breath. Had he endured all that pain only to suffocate? 

Heedless of how his backside burned or how much his weeping soles shied any contact with the dusty ground rough hands forced Richelieu off the table and onto his abused feet, blind and naked. His knees buckled, but the same hands held him upright. He groaned in pain as they made him stand.

The guards pushed him out of the torture chamber and down long, endless hallways, and up far too many steps. All while his soles sent pricks of pain through his entire body, and his lacerated up backside protested every movement of his thighs. 

He gasped on every other step as they pushed him up the winding staircase. 

When they had finally forced him to go far enough and climb high enough, they manhandled him onto another flat surface. Driven by instinct, Richelieu tried to kick them away, but he could barely lift his feet.

He stopped trying to get away once he realised he heard the sound of a heavy door closing. 

He was alone. Locked in again. Somewhere.

Richelieu surfaced from his trance only slowly. The burning pain that had dominated his senses receded to nothing more than a dull throb as long as he lay still. Cool air soothing his cut, aching skin, he gave in to the lure of sleep.

His dreams were filled with fire that scorched his feet. Thick, burning tar ran down his backside like congealing blood once the pyres were lit. In his dream Vargas' stake burned the brightest.

Once conscious thought reasserted itself, Richelieu realised that the sackcloth was gone; he awoke to sunlight.

It was not the greyly illuminated penumbra of limbo that stabbed his eyes, but a glaring white light, bright like the searing promise of atonement at Mount Purgatory. Richelieu, lying on his stomach, shielded his eyes with a hand to be able to see where he was. The movement made the muscles in his shoulders groan, but what he saw made him scramble to sit up – the cry out at the pain. 

He lay back down again, his back stiff as a board. It wasn't merely his backside and feet that hurt, but his every muscle protested his attempts at rising. His muscles cramped not only from the abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his torturer, but because they had frozen stiff after Richelieu had decided to fall asleep, nude as he was, without slipping under the covers first. 

_The covers._

Richelieu ran his fingertips over the smooth, soft cloth beneath him. When he had been brought here he must have been too numb and dazed to even realise that he had been thrown onto a bed. 

A proper bed. Not a cot with a straw mattress, but a soft bed with clean-smelling sheets and large pillows.

The sunlight that had stabbed his eyes entered through a window set with obscure glass.

There were no bars in front of it. 

With a cry, Richelieu threw himself out of bed. He imagined he could feel his abused skin tear open again as he crawled towards the window. The cold stone floor made him flinch as much as the rough, simple rug at the room's centre, but eventually, holding on to the windowsill, he pulled himself to his sore feet. 

The latch holding the window closed opened easily. He threw it open, his legs trembling. The view before him made him laugh. His laughter sounded low and raw, since his throat had dried out, but he considered it appropriate; Richelieu had a fine view of the landscape that lay a hundred feet below him. Directly under his window he saw part of a garden, its hedges and flowerbeds neatly arranged. The gardens adjoined a ring of thick walls. Beyond that he saw fresh green fields bathed in sunlight, and a dark treeline in the distance. All that separated him from the fields were a sheer drop and high walls.

Richelieu closed the window and slid down to the floor. He lay, since sitting was impossible. There he rested, slowly rubbing his eyes against the sting of tears. 

He was still imprisoned.

Looking around he noticed that there was no brazier this time. Instead there was a fine, densely woven metal grating set into a hole in one of the walls. Richelieu guessed there was a vent behind it, connecting the grating to a fireplace that could be maintained from a different room, even a different floor. 

There was a low sideboard next to it, and on the other side of the room what looked like a water basin. A decanter had been placed nearby on a stool, next to a small writing desk. Richelieu noticed that the chair in front of the desk was cushioned, and the bed he had just crawled out of looked soft, but the room's welcoming appearance was as deceptive as the unbarred window. 

This place was still a prison.

Richelieu had not been swept away to safety while he lay unconscious and bleeding from dozens of cuts. Jean hadn't come and taken him away. 

He hadn't been good enough. He hadn't even come close to reaching out to anyone who might listen to him. He hadn't prayed the right way, and he had attempted to exploit the guards' faith for nothing. He was a blasphemer who hadn't confessed or taken part in Holy Communion for weeks. If it were given to him now, he would damn his soul to Hell for the sacrilege of taking the host on his impure tongue.

He hadn't managed to do anything in this prison, apart from having his body mutilated while Vargas had called him a dog and made him bark. 

Richelieu rested the side of his face against the cold stone floor. 

_I am not a dog_ , he thought. But he didn't get up. 

His limbs, having briefly been warmed by the rush of heat his heart had pumped through his body at the sight of the bright window, now trembled in the chill of the tower chamber. He was not going to walk out of here anytime soon.

  


* * *

  


1 In the seventh circle of Hell, according to Dante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richelieu is gonna catch a bit of a break after this, I promise. Physically at least. He hasn't realised it yet, but he's advanced to Act II.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Without hope we live on in desire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes are now links as well as hover text to (hopefully) better accomodate mobile devices. :) Will go back and edit the footnotes of previous chapters during the week.

_On the other side of a snowed-in clearing, a woman knelt in front of a demon dressed in crimson and black. Becoming aware of being observed, the dark figure turned to look at the Cardinal cowering in the snow. Before Richelieu could make out its face, he was being pushed to the ground. Arms like steel vices held him down as scalding oil was poured down his throat._

_He walked over a bridge, spanning a foaming river that he had never seen before. A child's corpse floated in the white waters below. The spray wetting his lips tasted like wine. Or was it residue from the oil?_

_He turned his face away just as someone touched his forehead with cool fingers. There was no one here. Except for the shadow in front of Richelieu's face cast by – someone outside the dream. Someone who spoke to him._

"Jean?"

 _Jean didn't answer him, and it struck Richelieu that it couldn't be Jean hovering above him. Why would_ Jean _be in hell? Jean was alive._

_He stood in a forest that looked exactly like the one in which he had seen the woman and the demon, but Richelieu knew that this was a different place. From the snow stuck out patches of disturbed earth, broken tents, and frozen corpses. Their skin was as blue as their cloaks, but Richelieu was hot._

_Although the snow crunched beneath his feet, Richelieu felt no cold. There would always be snow in the forest – until the day the freezing winds that the Great Deceiver summoned, ceaselessly beating his wings in his icy prison at the bottom of hell, stopped blowing. 1 But Richelieu did not feel it. The ice did not hinder his steps. _

_He made his way through the forest, leaving bloody footprints like a beggar, walking among corpses, sticking out from the snow like the sinners stuck in the frozen lake created by the beating of the fallen angel's wings. Before his eyes they transformed into familiar faces. They were the faces of King Henri's assassin, Concini, Catherine and Marie, the Medici Queens, all dressed in red. No more blue cloaks for these queens, the betrayers of Kings._

_Surely he had earned his place among them, in their prison of ice. But Richelieu was hot._

_So_ hot _._

_He had been cast into the fires of purgatory to burn for his lust until—_

Snapping his eyes open he found himself surrounded by cool night. All that he could make out were stars shining through a window in the darkness. His eyes fell shut again. He was still hot, still burning, but he was so tired.

_He stood in Cluzet's cell, watching the former Savoyard chancellor read and write. Richelieu called out his name, but when Cluzet looked up, his glasses reflected the scaly face of a demon._

  


* * *

  


Richelieu woke with a start. For a moment he did not remember where he was. His surroundings were familiar, yet _wrong_. This was not his bedroom in the Palais Cardinal. He thought he had seen Treville, but he was alone. He thought he had been sick, but his physicians weren't there. His physicians had betrayed him. Memory soon returned and Richelieu buried his fingers in the thick fur blanket that covered him. 

_I am not a dog,_ he reminded himself.

He did not remember being given furs, but the sight of the water basin and the writing desk confirmed that he had not been moved from the tower cell. 

On the chair in front of the writing desk Richelieu saw a shirt, doublet and woollen hose all arranged in a neat pile. Running his fingers over his skin, Richelieu carefully felt the raw flesh of his buttocks. He was still naked. 

Throwing off the heavy covers, Richelieu swung his legs over the edge of the bed in a swift motion that made him feel dizzy. He sat still for a moment to regain his balance before getting up. He felt as though a wave had crashed his body against a reef, cutting him up all over.

His feet were sore, and the scabs on his backside had begun to stiffen, pulling at his skin as he tried to stand. _How much time had he lost as he had dreamed?_

Once his legs stopped shaking, Richelieu limped over to the water basin, a washcloth hanging over its side. He poured water from the earthenware decanter to soak the washcloth in it to wipe himself down, washing away the nightmares.

Were these like the dreams that made Treville sweat and twitch at night as he dreamt of the brothers who had died at his side in battle?

The moisture made Richelieu tremble as if he were back in the snow-covered woods, but he managed to finish up without giving in to the urge to watch for moving shadows out of the corners of his eyes. 

He was surprised, disappointed even, to find that the washcloth came away unbloodied. His jailers must have washed him while he had been unconscious. 

They had washed his backside while he lay helpless.

Richelieu threw the cloth back into the basin, causing water to splash onto the stool and floor. He wanted to kick the stool, shattering basin and decanter, but he'd only end up cutting his feet on the shards like a dumb animal. 

Contenting himself with the satisfying splash the soaked cloth had made, he turned towards the clothes laid out for him. Although the hose lying on top of the pile looked pristine and white, Richelieu imagined them stained with his blood. 

A part of him wanted to retreat to the bed, but he made himself pick up the clothes instead. They had been picked by Vargas or one of his servants, but Richelieu could not tell what purpose Vargas had in mind. 

_A dog in his kennel needs a bone._

His hands shook with anger as he picked up the shirt. He had half a mind to throw it out of the window, but he was cold from his bath and he refused to cower beneath the furs to stay warm.

_It was cold in the woods._

Taking a deep breath, Richelieu closed his eyes against the nightmare. He thought of Treville, and he thought of their last kiss, long and gentle and warming and sweet.

He could not walk out of this prison barefoot and naked. How was he going to make it back to Paris with no clothes on? 

Besides, dogs didn't wear clothes.

He pulled the shirt over his head. Its cloth was coarser and stiffer than he was used to, but it stroked his skin gently as it fell down his back. The sensation of the woollen hose warming his feet prompted a sigh, although they were nothing like the silk stockings he'd worn as the great Cardinal. 

The doublet was too big to fit snugly, as were the knee-length trousers in the bulging, Spanish cut, but they dispersed the chill in his bones. Wearing a gentleman's dress – albeit a Spanish gentleman – made Richelieu's recent ordeal seem far away. Only the tenderness of his flayed skin assured him that it had been real.

Richelieu gritted his teeth as he remembered the humiliation. Vargas had made him beg, made him call his captor "master."

He would pay for it. 

But in order for that to happen Richelieu had to escape. He had to set to work on the guards again. Now that he was dressed like a Spanish gentleman it should be impossible for the guardsmen to see him as just another prisoner, even if the guards in the tower hadn't listened to his preaching before, or been witness to his Spanish conversations with Vargas. 

Richelieu hesitated. How could he be sure there was anyone outside of his cell door? There was a hatch in the door at about eye-level, and another one at its bottom, but so far he had yet to see either slide open. 

Perhaps Vargas didn't think it necessary for the tower cell to be guarded night and day. Perhaps he was getting bolder now that he had Richelieu for – how long? Richelieu had spent almost a week running his mind ragged before he began writing on the walls. He had filled them, marking off the nights that passed without nightmares for another week until he had settled on his plan to win the sympathies of the guards. It had taken as long again first to summon Vargas, and then for the Spaniard to decide to punish him. And now, a few days later, he was here after — he blinked back tears of shame as he remembered his humiliation.

He threw a look at the closed window, thinking of the lush fields outside.

_Without hope we live on in desire. 2_

Why would Vargas post guards at his door and risk their corruption? Dogs couldn't fly. 

Although he intended to kneel down to pray, he hovered near the writing desk. A stack of empty sheaves of papers had been laid out for him, along with sharp quills and an inkwell, waiting for him to fill the paper with words the world would never read. _Like Cluzet._

A fitting penance for a lifetime of courting shadows. This was the bone Vargas had thrown him. The alternative to the cane.

Richelieu's gaze flickered between the door and the desk for a long while. The tender, healing skin of his backside stung as he sat down and picked up a quill.

  


* * *

  


The knock at his door made Richelieu jump. Night had fallen, but no one had entered Richelieu's cell until now. It was not a guard who appeared to serve his meal, but a girl; petite, blonde and dressed like a servant. She placed a jug and a tray on the sideboard next to the door, before leaving with a curtsy. 

Unlike the dishes he had been given in the first cell, the tray and its cover were coated with silver, and the jug had been painted with a delicate pattern. The cup was wooden, and carved with figures from a hunting scene. Richelieu was unable to decide what to make of this apparition, whether to frown or to laugh. Was this another bone he had been thrown? Did Vargas think Richelieu would eventually forget that he was still a prisoner if his cell was comfortable and the servants looked nice enough?

Having nothing else to do apart from driving himself mad by trying to guess Vargas' newest game, Richelieu inspected the dishes. The broth tasted as tepid and bland as the rest of the food he had been given since his capture, but at least he had been given wine to wash it down. 

After he had eaten, the same feminine apparition returned to collect the dishes, under the watchful eye of the guards. Richelieu demonstratively turned away from them, staring at the crumpled up papers on the desk in silent shame, choosing the bone over the stick. 

Once the guards and the girl had left, Richelieu ripped up the papers and threw them out of the window.

  


* * *

  


The dream-forest was cold. There were blue-cloaked corpses lying between ripped open tents and the scattered ashes of trampled fireplaces. 

One of the corpses stared up at Richelieu with glassy eyes that had once been an entrancing shade of blue. Even in his dream Richelieu knew, somehow, that this was not what had happened. This never happened. 

Above the blue-eyed body towered a red-robed demon with Rochefort's face.

Richelieu awoke to a sick feeling of urgency. He stumbled out of bed, slipped the doublet back on, spending a long moment staring at the writing desk. 

The same girl returned to bring his breakfast. As she entered the cell she found him on his knees in prayer, and when she returned for the dishes Richelieu thanked her. He was surprised at how rough his voice had become from disuse. 

The girl gave no reply, hurrying out of the chamber after a rushed curtsy.

The guardsmen had barely locked the door behind her before Richelieu started trembling. His backside and feet ached, even though his wounds had closed. Any thoughts of prayer or the blank papers vanished from his mind. He spent the day listening for any sounds from beyond the door. He pretended to look out of the window to distract himself, but was unable to see much besides remembered images of the tools down in Vargas' torture chamber. 

The girl did not return in the evening to bring him food. This time the guards escorted a man of middling age, who was wearing an apron over simple, unornamented clothes. He didn't carry a tray or any other dishes, but there was a folded up leather kit such as one might use to carry tools buckled to his belt. 

"What is this?" Richelieu blurted out, staying exactly where he was, hovering between the window and the desk. He had done nothing. He had only addressed the servant girl once, to thank her. She had stumbled upon his morning prayer by accident. 

The man in the apron bowed his head in apology and Richelieu felt his throat constrict as if it were squeezed by a metal collar.

"The Lord of the castle begs you to join him for dinner."

"Does he?" Richelieu paused. "Has he instructed you on what to do if I refuse?"

"I'll leave," the man answered, looking confused. 

"And your companions?" Richelieu looked at the guards standing behind the man. 

"They will also leave, I presume."

Richelieu took a moment to digest this news. "Dinner?" he said, feeling little appetite. "In the grand dining hall?"

His question was met with more confusion. "I assume so."

"Lead on then," Richelieu said, squaring his shoulders.

"I beg your forgiveness, Señor." Blanching, the man shot a pleading look at the guardsmen, but as no apparent help was forthcoming, he turned back to Richelieu. He did not quite dare to meet the Cardinal's eyes. "Please, allow me to make you presentable first."

Richelieu exhaled sharply, prepared be offended, but the man showed him his unbuckled his leather kit, containing a shaving razor, a whetstone, a horn comb and a set of scissors.

Richelieu had last been shaved on his deathbed, weeks ago – he had been _dead_ for weeks.

And all this time he had remained unkempt, unshaven. He could barely stop himself from touching his beard. 

"May we begin?" The volunteer barber gestured to the only chair in the chamber. Richelieu froze at the thought of letting the man near his throat with a razor, but his only other options were to appear before Vargas unshaven like a beggar, or refuse to go. 

It was unlikely that Vargas would allow him to handle the razor himself, even should the thought of the great Cardinal shaving himself like a pauper amuse him.

Squaring his shoulders, Richelieu sat, although sitting continued to cause him slight discomfort, despite the cushion. 

As the barber unfolded his razor, Richelieu couldn't help but flinch.

Vargas did not want him to die, he reminded himself. The barber would not kill him. Although how much more entertaining would Vargas' evening if his guest of honour suffered an accident that left him with a disfiguring scar? 

Taking a steadying breath, Richelieu took the bowl and towel handed to him and let the man set to work. Richelieu didn't feel a cut, but was aware of every touch as the barber dressed his hair, combing his fingers through it to groom, not to harm. It was an odd sensation; unsettling, but growing ever more pleasant the longer the procedure lasted. 

"Please tilt your head." The barber said, moving on to trim the beard. To emphasise what he wanted the Cardinal to do, he lightly touched his chin. Richelieu sat stunned. The last time anyone had touched him without the intent to harm had been weeks ago, as Jean had kissed him goodbye. It took effort to remain still. 

When the barber stepped back and handed the bowl to one of the guards to empty it out of the window, Richelieu felt relieved yet disappointed at the same time. He lifted a hand to examine his jawline and chin.

"Do you have a mirror?" he asked. 

The noise Richelieu made upon seeing his own face was somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. He noted how pale he was, how glassy and tired his eyes looked, and how white and brittle his skin and hair. It wasn't the barber's fault that he looked so gaunt. The man had handsomely trimmed Richelieu's beard and moustache, having left the hair only slightly longer than Richelieu remembered wearing it at court to accommodate a more Spanish style. 

_Jean would have liked it._ He had enjoyed burying his hands in Richelieu's hair whenever they were in bed. But Jean might not have recognised the grey face looking back at Richelieu. 

Once Richelieu handed him back the mirror, the man in the apron excused himself. "These gentlemen will take you to my Lord," he said before leaving Richelieu alone with the guards.

They put down a pair of shoes in front of him. Swallowing his pride, Richelieu put them on in front of the watching men. The shoes fit him much better than the doublet or the baggy trousers, a fact that made Richelieu grimace; Vargas and his men paid a lot of attention to his feet. 

Standing up, Richelieu allowed the guards to lead him out of his cell.

The door opened onto a narrow landing and a steep, winding staircase hewn from sanded stone. No torches were lit along the walls, forcing Richelieu to stay close to the guards who were carrying lanterns. 

He quickly lost count of the number of steps, as his concentration was taken up simply by walking without tripping and tumbling down the stairs. The long confinement had robbed him of his accustomed grace, and his attire only heightened the awkwardness of his movements. Even on the battlefield Richelieu had always made concessions to his profession in his dress. He had directed sieges wearing robes and sashes in the scarlet of his office underneath his armour. He hadn't worn clothes cut like this since he had been a young man, and even then they hadn't been as ill-fitting. 

_Vargas had dressed up his dog in an amusing costume._

Reaching the end of the staircase, they walked through a short, windowless hallway, before entering a set of rooms that were heated but sparsely furnished, making them look barely looking lived-in. On their way from the barren rooms to the dining hall they encountered not a single servant. 

The doors to the dining chamber opened before Richelieu without much fanfare. Two of his escorts remained behind to stand guard at the entrance as the third man led him to what he presumed was his designated seat at the table. 

Ornamented plates and metal cups had already been set into place, reflecting the evening light falling in through the almost floor-length windows. Through the windows Richelieu could make out more of the gardens he had been able to see from his cell.

His jailor was already seated, next to another man, across from Richelieu. Neither of them stood to greet him. Waiting for the guard to pull back his chair, Richelieu noticed that the cutlery laid out for him included a knife.

"Richelieu." Vargas gave him an appraising look. 

"Vargas." Richelieu sat down, noting that although his seat was cushioned it was every bit as uncomfortable to his sensitive, regenerating skin as the one in his cell. "I am surprised you would deign to dine with your dog."

Vargas made a sour face. "Now, there is no need for this kind of language. We came to an understanding, didn't we? I would like this to be the beginning of a new chapter for the two of us. Oh, and I am surprised I need to remind a Cardinal that it is impolite not to greet your host first." 

Richelieu turned his attention to the man at Vargas' side. He looked about a decade younger than the spymaster, as his dark hair was mostly free of grey. The man's moustache and thin goatee were neatly trimmed; along with his sharp cheekbones, they gave his face a triangular look. He was dressed in a scarlet velvet doublet with white-slashed sleeves, ornamented with silver thread, unmistakably marking him as a nobleman.

"I am terribly sorry, Señor," Richelieu began. "For weeks now have I imposed on your hospitality, yet I have never had the opportunity to meet you."

The nobleman looked perplexed by Richelieu's joviality, but Vargas leaped to his rescue.

"Allow me to introduce the Caballero de Cuervo."

Cuervo. _The Raven_. A poetic, but unusual name for a Spanish knight. Since it was not a name of lands or families that Richelieu recognised it had likely been chosen for convenience.

"Caballero, you have heard of the Cardinal, of course."

The Caballero nodded solemnly. "My pleasure."

Richelieu refrained from snorting. He was certain neither of the two men were under any illusions about how he truly felt about their presence. 

"I presume, then, Señor, that this humble abode is yours?"

Cuervo, or whatever his real name was, nodded again. "Correct, I have that pleasure."

"The Caballero had it built himself," Vargas added, and Richelieu saw Cuervo's mouth twitch. He filed this curious reaction away for later.

"In that case it is an even greater shame that, sadly, I did not have the opportunity to see much of your chateau beyond its cellar."

"Ah, but that's why the Caballero invited you tonight."

"Indeed." Richelieu's gracious host composed himself. "It would please me if you accepted the use of my gardens in the mornings." His gaze flickered from Richelieu to Vargas and back again. "I find nothing stimulates the mind quite like a walk."

"A walk? On my own?"

"You will have an escort, of course," Vargas cut in.

"Are these gardens so dangerous?"

"Not usually, no." The spymaster smiled. "But you have a habit of attracting harm."

"And to accept this generous offer, I…"

"Do _nothing_ ," Vargas supplemented. "But we can speak more of that while we eat."

A servant had arrived, serving the starter course from an intricately ornamented silver tureen, and the girl who had served Richelieu in the tower joined them to pour the wine. 

Her eyes widened in confusion as she recognised him, but she quickly regained her composure and filled his cup without spilling a drop. Her work of the moment done, she retreated from view as all good servants should and Richelieu was unable to tell whether she'd been surprised at seeing him outside of his cell, or at his no longer dishevelled appearance. 

Richelieu immediately regretted taking a bold drink from his cup, as the wine tasted light and sweet, inviting him to drink much more than he could afford to in the present company. The last wine he had drunk that had been this sweet had been given to him by Treville, to both celebrate their victory over Marie de Medici and drown the more unpleasant memories she had stirred. They had ended up so hungover that they had nearly been caught by Richelieu's secretary in the morning.

Reminding himself where he was, Richelieu turned to his soup, and a sinking feeling joined the wine at the bottom of his stomach. The soup tasted a little too salty and a little too much of pepper, but what kind of mistrustful wretch would see a connection between sweet wine and salted soup? Particularly as the servants appeared under orders to keep his glass filled to the brim even after he had taken only a single sip.

As a friend of simple cuisine, Richelieu had never thought that the smell of spices would be able to tempt him so much. Now it made his body ache to practice reserve when confronted with the first flavourful meal he had tasted in months. 

"Is there a problem?" Vargas asked, as the servants picked up their used dishes to make room for the nest course. Richelieu had finished only half of his small bowl.

"Strongly spiced dishes don't agree with me."

"I do hope the next course will be more to your liking. You should really try to eat up. You need to take better care of yourself."

"Do I?"

"After the first day you spent in the tower…" Vargas let the words hang in the space between them. "Your fevered ranting was frightful, was it not, Cuervo?"

Richelieu vaguely recalled shadow faces and… _something_ being forced down his throat. 

Cuervo did not look particularly interested in being made a part of this conversation. "It still gets cold on the top floors of the towers at this time of year."

"My men found you naked and shivering. They had to put you to bed and feed you hot wine. Did you not find the clothes I had laid out for you?"

"I did, but I didn't want them to spoil them, bloodied as I was." He wouldn't admit to Vargas that he hadn't even seen them.

"I would apologise for the inconvenience, but, as I believe we worked out earlier, it takes the goodwill of both of us to avoid a repetition of any unpleasantness."

"That is a very peculiar way to describe torture."

A brief silence fell over the hall. The servants seemed to have disappeared at an unseen gesture of their master.

"Please," Vargas said. "Sometimes distasteful measures are the only responsible option. We are all realists here. Statesmen. "

 _Are we?_ Richelieu cast a glance at Cuervo.

"You know I cannot let you do as you like with regards to the men, and you know why I cannot hesitate to employ any means necessary to remind you." Vargas paused. "You may continue to act offended if you wish, but we're all aware of your true nature."

"My true nature." Richelieu swallowed dry. "What would that be?"

Vargas wiped his mouth on his napkin and pursed his lips: "Have you forgotten our last discussion?" 

Careful to keep his face immobile, Richelieu suppressed a shudder.

"The men who addressed you as 'Eminencia'; I had to have them whipped." 

"I didn't ask them to call me that." 

Vargas gave a dry laugh. "Look at you! Is that all the man of God has to say? No compassion? No remorse? What a good Christian!"

"They're soldiers. They knew what they were doing," Richelieu said calmly, trying to banish all thoughts of blue cloaks and dead eyes from his mind. Although summer had to be approaching fast, a memory of snow tickled the base of Richelieu's spine.

A soft smile was all the commentary Vargas allowed himself on the matter.

"Unless I am mistaken the meat course is next. I should like to see you eat up this time, Cardinal."

Once the roast had been served – strongly spiced, of course – their conversation turned back to the chateau. Cuervo explained that it was his summer residence, but when Richelieu asked him whether this meant he was going to meet the Caballero's family he did not respond. Cuervo left it to Vargas to change the subject. The spymaster asked Richelieu what he thought of the quality of the ink and paper he had been given, briefly sinking into an annoyed silence when Richelieu admitted that he made hardly any use of them, yet. 

Richelieu wondered what exactly Vargas hoped he would write down and filed that thought away for later as well. By now his throat was begging him to taste the sweet wine again.

To his surprise, the Caballero asked whether Richelieu would like to have any books in his chamber, and the Cardinal approved this idea, becoming more intrigued the longer his conversation with Cuervo went on.

The Spanish knight spoke French fluently with a mild regional colouring instead of a fully-fledged accent. It was too faint for Richelieu to pinpoint the region of its origin with any accuracy, but he was certain Cuervo had not learned to speak French in Spain – if indeed he was Spanish.

"Will you be joining me in my morning walks, Señor?" Richelieu asked as the servants cleared away the remains of the honeyed cake they'd had for dessert. The cake had convinced Richelieu that Cuervo's cooks must have retained at least some pride, since it was the only dish served that evening that had not been spicy or excessively salted.

"I am afraid I am very busy in the mornings."

Before Richelieu could respond, Vargas clapped his hands and the servants returned to take their cups, calling an end to the evening.

"Time to break up this gathering." The Caballero rose, and his guests mirrored him. "But hopefully, this will not be the last time you joined us, Cardinal."

"Hopefully," Vargas agreed with a sharp look, but Richelieu managed to keep his attention focused on Cuervo, smiling back at him politely. 

From the corners of his eyes, he saw the guardsmen move into position beside him. 

"These gentlemen will show you the way back to your chamber," Vargas said, as Cuervo excused himself and retreated from the hall. 

"I was hoping they would show me to the gates."

Vargas smiled. "Pray they don't show you the cellar." He nodded at the guards and they motioned for Richelieu to walk towards the door he had entered through earlier that evening. 

"There is just one more thing before you leave, Cardinal." 

The guards made Richelieu stop. He turned around to face Vargas again. The spymaster looked smug.

"In your fever, you talked. Not much, not very coherently, but my physician attests to catching words, names. Perhaps you can shed some light upon this one mystery: Who is Jean?"

Richelieu was careful not to let any emotions seep into his voice. "A cat. My childhood pet."

"That is not the name I expected a man with such an active intellect as yours would give a beloved pet. Jean is such a mundane name."

"Indeed. You will find that every other French nobleman at Court is called Jean."

"At Court, you say."

Richelieu's lips tightened into a closed-lipped smile. "Two of my secretaries are call Jean as well."

Vargas shrugged. "This cat - he must have meant a lot to you, for him to still be on your mind." 

"No more or less than any other pet. Dreams work in the way God wills them to."

"Still, I would wager he was a remarkable cat. I can't wait to hear the stories about him the next time we see each other."

Richelieu's smiled broadened fondly. "You might enjoy them, Vargas. Jean was always very efficient at catching rats."

He was walked back through the same set of sparsely furnished rooms, through the narrow hallway, and up the stairs, the climbing of which left Richelieu feeling light-headed enough to walk into his cell without much protest.

"Take off your shoes, please."

"Are you serious?" Richelieu whirled around, but there was no humour in the guards' faces. 

"They will be returned to you whenever you are invited outside."

Richelieu stared at them. His feet, no longer used to the confinement of footwear, were aching at heels and toes, but he was loath to part with them. They were _shoes_. Everyone had shoes. 

Except for dogs.

Making no move to remove them, Richelieu retreated deeper into the cell, walking backwards. 

The guards advanced in unison. Richelieu shrank back, but flight was not an option in the small chamber. They were on him in moments, throwing him onto the bed where they twisted his arms behind his back.

Richelieu grunted, trying to kick off his shoes just to make them release him. 

Letting go of him, the guards bent down to pick them up. Richelieu, still on the bed, scrambled away from them on hands and knees. Only after the door had closed behind them could he force his heart back into his chest from where it had lodged in his throat. 

Without taking his eyes off the door, Richelieu curled up on his side.

_So much for Spanish hospitality._

  


* * *

  


1 According to Dante, at the lowest point of Hell, in the centre of the ninth circle, Satan is half submerged in the underworld river Cocytus that has been turned into a lake of ice by the ceaseless beating of his wings. 

2 Dante's Commedia, Inferno, Canto IV. While spared from the violent tortures of Hell proper, the souls stuck in Limbo look forever up to Heaven, longing for a salvation they'll never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treville is going to rejoin us soon. Just in case you were missing him. We'll get a hint of what he's been up to in the next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Vargas was lying. He had a habit of inventing death._

Richelieu feared that his behaviour the previous evening could have made Cuervo rescind his offer, but when the guards entered his cell in the morning, they brought back the shoes. Richelieu felt sick at the sight of them, but he did not refuse them. After putting the shoes on, he followed the guards down to the base of the tower, telling himself that he needed to take advantage of every opportunity to explore more of the chateau. 

They passed through another set of unfurnished hallways, then out into the gardens. The sensation of a breeze on his skin and the gravel under his shoes arrested Richelieu's steps. The smell of the unfolding blossoms stopped his breath. He could not remember the last time he had felt the sunshine warm his face. For a long moment he stood – smelling, listening, feeling. Richelieu had to think of his own palatial gardens and how they used to soothe him. He wondered whether the new owner of his Palais had kept them.

As he passed the first couple of flowerbeds on his way down the gravel paths, the liberating freshness of the air was replaced by thoughts of prison walls. Those surrounding the castle were ten feet tall, and Richelieu could see a pair of guards on patrol, walking between the watchtowers. The blossoming colours of the garden dulled in their shadows. 

As Richelieu continued his walk, he was aware of every step his armed escort took behind him. On returning to his cell, he felt more agitated than before he had left.

Looking to calm himself, Richelieu sat down at the writing desk, taking in the blank sheets before him. Try as he might, he was unable to write more than two lines at a time before scratching them out. 

_What did Vargas want from him?_ What did he expect Richelieu to write apart from mindless platitudes? He would never betray his state secrets; not in speech, nor in the written word. Betraying one's liege condemned the sinner to the deepest pits of Hell. Richelieu would not be tempted to it – again. 

Did Vargas expect Richelieu to grow careless enough to betray himself by accident? Say, if in one of his plays or poems he outlined a role for a Queen secretly having a bastard with a careless soldier… what would Vargas take from that? If he cast a handsome hero on a quest to save his love from a tower, what would the spymaster think?

_"Who is Jean?"_

Closing his eyes for a long moment, Richelieu sighed. He picked up a quill and wrote, slowly, deliberately.

  


* * *

  


Cuervo did not send another dinner invitation that night or the following evening. Richelieu could not decide whether he was disappointed. His meals continued to be delivered by the blonde servant girl, but Richelieu took care that she did not catch him at prayer again.

Yet not praying in front of her did not mean he did not notice that she looked less taken aback at his appearance than she previously had. Although her visits remained as short and silent as ever, Richelieu could not shake the feeling that she had trouble keeping her eyes off him. 

It was a moot point. He was not going to speak to her. He was not in the mood to start preaching to his jailor's servants again.

What would be the use? They'd listen to him. They'd talk about him. Vargas would not content himself with the fork next time. He'd collar his dog with spikes to cut him and a metal ring heavy enough to break his back.

And then what? 

Vargas could hurt him in a hundred ways without taking his life. They would split his knees so he would not be able to kneel down in prayer. They would take his fingers so he couldn't beg. They would sew his eyes shut with wire so he could never find the way out of this prison. 

When would he leave his mark on France? _Never_. When would he see Jean again?

No. It was better not to think about that, better to bide his time. Better to write and walk, and dine, and wait.

_For what?_

There was another other way to escape his prison. Beyond the unbarred window the blue sky beckoned, but escaping the prospect of a decade or two in squalor – however long it took for his body to expire in confinement – was not worth eternal separation from the Lord and his kingdom. Richelieu would not consider that path so long as there was a shred of his soul left that he could hold on to.

What did a decade of torture and loneliness mean when weighed against the promise of life eternal?

Turning to open a fresh pot of ink, Richelieu noticed an object on the desk that had not been there the day before. In his absence, his rosary had been returned.

  


* * *

  


Eventually, the guards began taking him for a walk in the gardens every morning. For the first few days, whenever he returned, there would be a new book waiting for him on the small sideboard, just as Cuervo had promised. Among them was the Bible, of course. But there were also classical philosophical treaties, as well as a travelogue of the New World. He had everything he could want for in his monk's cell.

Richelieu also found that, whenever he returned from his walks or from dinner with his jailers, his papers had been disturbed. Whoever came in to read, they did not care to disguise their intrusion by arranging the pages in the same way they had found them once they were done.

The invitations to dinner became more frequent as well, though the quality of the food hardly ever changed. Week after week the soup continued to be as generously salted as the meat was spicy, and the more the conversation turned to politics, the sweeter the wine became. Richelieu considered taking a vow of abstinence, but he was reluctant to provoke Vargas further. His writing was already doing that for him. 

They were sitting in the dining hall one evening, having just finished the main course, when Vargas directed the conversation to Richelieu's latest work. 

"It is said that suffering creates great art, Cardinal. Your writing, however…"

Richelieu shrugged. He did not care what his torturer thought of his prose. What did a spy know of literature anyway? 

"And yet, I must admit, I am intrigued by the fate you have laid out for the jailer in your play. He is eaten by the hero's cat."

Cuervo had kept out of the conversation, but Richelieu could see the corners of his mouth twitch as though suppressing a smile. 

"I thought that you would appreciate it. Your mention of my Jean inspired it."

"Hm. I thought so. And you describe it in great detail. Such violence from a man of God..."

Richelieu graciously bowed his head. "Coming from you, I take that as a compliment. I thought you were looking forward to hearing a story about my cat, so I decided to indulge you." 

"Your Jean was a man-eater?"

Richelieu smiled. 

"You are a great entertainer," Vargas said pleasantly. "It is only fair then, that we should share some news with you from your old home."

Richelieu felt the warmth of the wine leave him at once. It could hardly be good news if Vargas was so willing to part with it.

"My condolences, Cardinal. I only just heard myself from our mutual friend, Rochefort, but it appears your King's dear cousin, the Princess Louise, has been killed, murdered." 

The servants entered with the dessert, but Richelieu had lost his appetite, sitting stunned and doing his best to appear not so. Securing Louise's marriage to the Swedish heir had been his last great act before he had succumbed to the effects of Vargas' poison.

"Along with several members of King Louis' council," Vargas continued. "It appears an assassin named Sofia Martínez assumed the princess' identity to wreak havoc at court with the help of her associates." 

Without a doubt, one of those associates was Rochefort.

Vargas was carefully watching him, searching for any sign that the Cardinal recognised the name, but Richelieu kept still. 

"The Archbishop of Paris was among the victims, was he not, Cuervo?"

Cuervo nodded. "He was killed performing a mass to bless the planned marriage. Murdered, right in front of the King's Musketeers who were supposed to protect the ceremony." 

"Not a great show of their talents, I agree." Vargas betrayed no emotion as he spoke. "The assassins even shot their Captain in the back."

_No._

"Rochefort told me he may survive the wound, but a mistake like that can easily be rectified. It will leave poor King Louis rather friendless."

Cuervo shrugged. "If it is true that the shot injured the Captain's lungs, I don't see why Rochefort would have to bother himself. He's dead."

_No!_

"Is something wrong, Cardinal?" 

Richelieu had stood up without realising. The guardsman who had been hovering nearby moved to stand behind him.

"I understand, it must be sad to see the alliance between France and Sweden torn apart with the death of the Princess, but at least you can rest easy, knowing that some of your rivals have passed away along with it."

Richelieu took a moment to breathe. "I will be returning to my cell."

"At least finish your dessert. The cook makes an excellent lemon tart."

Richelieu pushed away from the table, almost upsetting his cup. "While I have been here you have humiliated and insulted me. I indulged you, because you gave me no choice, but I will not sit here as you so flippantly discuss the death of a Royal Princess; of people I have worked with closely for a decade."

Richelieu turned to leave, his face immobile. Thankfully, Vargas did not order the guards to stop him.

Vargas said something else, but Richelieu could not make out the words over the sounds of blood rushing in his ears.

Setting a brisk pace for the guards trailing him, he headed back to the tower. He pulled off his shoes halfway up the stairs, so that the guards would not have to bother following him inside. 

As soon as he heard the bolt slip into place and the cell door lock, Richelieu crumpled. The world swimming before his eyes, he leaned against the foot of the bed. If guards appeared to drag him back into the cellars, he would not care. 

_They had shot Treville_. While Richelieu had enjoyed walks in the garden, and lavish food, and writing down his foolish insults to Vargas. 

He saw that his golden cross had been returned to him. It was lying on the top of the sideboard, but Richelieu did not have the heart to pick it up. He could remember all the times Treville had touched it; reverentially, playfully. 

He should never have stopped trying to gain allies, trying to escape. What did the ability to walk matter now? 

Treville had been shot. All his honour, all his morality and faithfulness had failed to protect him. All his temper, all his indignation, his gentle, forgiving soul. His passionate heart. Treville hadn't known to watch his back against Rochefort, because Richelieu had never told him what the Comte was capable of. Because Rochefort had not mattered. Because Rochefort was supposed to rot away in a Spanish prison.

But Rochefort wasn't suffering in a Spanish prison now. Richelieu was. 

_It was said of traitors, that if their sins were great enough, their souls would be plunged into Hell even though their bodies seemed still alive; the sinner's place on Earth taken by a fiend._ 1

Rochefort was in Paris, where Treville had been dealing with the chaos Richelieu's disappearance – his death – had caused. Where they might be burying Treville, far away from Richelieu. Because the musketeers had failed to protect him. Because they never had been able to do anything right, not even looking after their own Captain. 

Richelieu bit his lip. All his fantasies of a reunion were dissolving like mist, but he would not cry. It was not something the great Cardinal Richelieu was permitted. His eyes stung regardless.

Looking to the window, he could see the evening sun was sinking behind the horizon. Richelieu pulled himself up onto his knees, a familiar prayer on his tongue.

"Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary—" he spoke aloud, and tried to ignore how rough his voice sounded; how shallow his breath was —"that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided."

Richelieu could imagine Treville lying in his narrow bed at the garrison, surrounded by half a dozen useless musketeers who watched over his recovery. 

"Inspired with this confidence, I fly to thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to thee do I come; before thee I stand—"

_If the shot injured his lung…_

"– before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful."

Vargas was lying. He had a habit of inventing death. Richelieu would not listen to the voice that asked _why_ Vargas would lie. The voice that pointed out that Vargas could not have known how much Richelieu cared. 

"O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me."

It did not mean death. It could not. Surely there was a physician _somewhere_ in Paris who could save Treville despite a grazed lung? It was only a lung. Richelieu was certain he had stopped breathing when he had risen from the dining table, yet _he_ was still alive. Treville had to be alive as well. The Captain was probably fighting to keep his hold on this world at this very moment. 

_And Richelieu was trapped here._

"Amen."

Richelieu stayed on his knees, his head bowed. He prayed for strength to spring from infirmity, joy to grow out of suffering, and pain to turn into comfort. He did not pray for himself.

When he stopped, his fear had washed away. Hearing a knock at the door, he calmly lifted his head. It was not the usual heavy knock the guards' used to announce themselves, nor was it followed by the sound of a key turning, or a bolt being removed. 

"Father?" He heard a young woman's voice. "Are you well?"

"I—" It took Richelieu a moment to realise that she was speaking French. "Who is asking?"

"Forgive me, Father. I am but a servant. My master has me serve your meals." She had to be the petite blonde girl. It was the first time Richelieu heard her voice.

"Are you not afraid the guards will hear you talk to me?" he asked.

"They are below. They will not bother me. I brought them your cake." The more she talked the easier it became for Richelieu to pin down her accent. It was more pronounced than Cuervo's, heavily coloured by the Picard dialect. _Curious_. 

Vargas employed Spanish soldiers to guard his dungeons, but the spymaster's host and his servants spoke a French dialect that was still common in parts of the Spanish ruled territories bordering the North of France. Perhaps Richelieu was not in Spain after all. 

"Are you not afraid of _me_?"

"No." Her voice was firm. "This evening, I was serving in the dining hall, you may not have noticed me. I try not to overhear things, most of the time. I know I am not supposed to, but I can't always help it. Not tonight. My master is a Christian, he should not… ever since Señor Vargas came here – but it is not my place to judge…"

"Do not let it burden your heart, child. Your master is the Caballero, Cuervo?"

The girl lowered her voice, and Richelieu moved closer to the door to hear, feeling reminded of a confessional. "My master's name is Raveau." A nice, _French_ name. "You do know they are lying to you?"

"Of course. Do not let it disturb you. God does not punish the servant for the sins of her master."

Richelieu knew he had chosen the right words when she rambled on. "I listen to you, sometimes. I know that I am not supposed to, but I hear when you talk. Here, and in the dining hall. The guards don't always bother to come all the way up here when they are on duty. And I hear what _they_ say, too. You are here, but you are so close to God. The Señores have done great harm, but you— my friend in the guard told me, I— are you a Holy Man?"

The notion almost made Richelieu laugh. "I am not. I am a Cardinal, but I am not holy." The Pope would eat his tiara before he allowed Richelieu to be canonised. 

The girl seemed to digest this. "Are not all Cardinals holy?"

"No. This world would look a little different if they were." In particular, because the Cardinals would all have to be dead to receive that honour. "Do you hear mass often, child?"

"Every Sunday, in the village."

Richelieu's heart beat faster. "This village is close by?"

"It takes a while to walk there."

"Do you know the name of the nearest city?"

"It is Arras."

It was as Richelieu suspected. So close to Paris, and yet so far away from freedom.2 He leaned against the door, feeling another sigh build in his chest. _So far from Treville_.

"Forgive me, Eminence; I came here because you seemed distressed."

Richelieu could not suppress the sardonic smile that spread across his lips at her words. This was not at all the result he had expected from his preaching in the cellar. Richelieu was not deluded enough to believe the girl had been sent as Divine Intervention in answer to his prayers for intercession. God's ways were less direct than that. Yet, in a way, she had come to him _because_ of every prayer he had spoken in this prison, and Richelieu could not allow another chance at winning an ally – no matter how lowly – to slip by. If there was any hope that this girl could carry a message, or find out what had happened to Treville, he had to take it. Besides, she had said she had a friend among the guardsmen… 

Richelieu took a deep breath. "They – the Señor's agents – hurt a dear friend of mine."

If, through this leap of faith, he should end up betraying Treville to Vargas, he would be damned. Yet, not taking this chance could dishonour Treville's memory just as much, or even cost his life if he was indeed still breathing. And even if Richelieu should return to Paris only to find Treville no longer there, the King still needed him. The realm Richelieu and Treville had watched over for so long needed him. In their attempts to mock him Vargas and Cuervo had pointed out how Rochefort was isolating the King. Regardless of what else had taken place in Paris, the traitorous Comte needed to be stopped. 

"Is he dead?"

Richelieu straightened. "I do not know." Saying the words out loud, he could feel the tranquillity he had attained through prayer crumble. 

"This friend of yours, is he a Cardinal, too?"

"No. He is not a Cardinal." But no less blessed for that, and far less sinister. Richelieu felt a fond smile tug at his lips. "He is… he is faithful in other ways."

Rare was the man who could mention honour without blushing. Treville was one of the few men Richelieu had known who possessed the uncanny ability to hold on to their principles in an environment rife with intrigue. Having quickly come to value it as one of Treville's many attractive qualities, it had driven Richelieu mad with want; for Treville the honourable; Treville the loyal; Treville the steadfast. For the man who was so much more complex than the rest of the court would ever know, and whose moral conscience was forever beyond Richelieu's control.

If they knew about it, his enemies might believe that this want was fuelled by Richelieu's lust for debasement, for corruption. But Richelieu realised; only in the blackest night had he ever dreamt of taking something so valuable from Treville. He would not be half as precious to Richelieu without the determination to carry out his duty, even when it meant he was cutting himself open.

This deeply moral man had cared for Richelieu. For the man whom Vargas called a dog, a demon, a false Christian. It only proved that Vargas had no idea what he was talking about. 

Even though the Captain knew of his crimes, Treville had never accepted that there was no place but Hell for a man like Richelieu. Even after the shattering revelation of Richelieu's treason against the Queen, Treville had eventually returned to him, offering a compromise and a warm bed. 

Treville had believed in Richelieu, if in nothing else. Richelieu prayed that he was safe.

_O grant Your strength to Your servant._

"Even should he be alive," Richelieu continued, "as Señor Vargas is intent on keeping me here, our chances to reunite in this life are slim."

This caused the girl to fall silent for a long while. Richelieu almost feared she had left, reporting to Vargas, until she spoke again. 

"Is there something I can do, your Eminence?"

Richelieu turned his face to the window, thinking.

"What is your name, my child?"

"Annette."

"Do you pray, Annette?"

"Of course. Every day!"

"What do you pray for?"

"For my family, your Eminence. For my friends. For them to be safe. There is talk of war."

"Will you include my friend in your prayers?"

"I will!"

 _Of course, you would._ After weeks of listening to nothing but Vargas' glib remarks and Cuervo's polite restraint the girl's earnestness caused Richelieu to flinch. He closed his eyes. _Forgive me for what I must do._

"Will you pray with me now?"

"I will!"

"Do you not know?" he began. "Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."

Another silence followed the _Amen_. The pause allowed Richelieu to store his thoughts of fallen soldiers away where they belonged. Perhaps his choice of scripture had not been as wise as he had thought.

Annette spoke up again, "May I... may I hold your hand?"

Richelieu froze, stunned. It was a preposterous suggestion. She was a servant, he was a Cardinal, the First Minister of France – but these were unusual circumstances, and it had been a long time since he had been anyone's minister.

"You may," he said, and a moment later he heard her open the hatch at the foot of the door.

It was the first human touch Richelieu had felt in weeks that did not intend to bruise. As her soft hand covered his, Richelieu had to choke back a gasp. He was reminded of how Treville's larger, rougher hand had held his as Richelieu had lain on what he had believed to be his deathbed, and almost jerked his hand away. Although he fought to keep still, he could not prevent his fingers from twitching. 

Annette's touch was brief, chaste, and reverent, but after the long absence of human affection it burned his skin, calling to mind every caress Richelieu had ever received. It was different from the guards' restraining grip or the barber's professional touches. It was earnest, lingering, friendly. As Annette pulled her hand away, he was left temporarily breathless.

Had _his_ victims felt like this? He had only been in this place for a few months at most. It had been six _years_ since Cluzet had been taken. But it had been done for Christine. It had been done for the King. It had been done for _France_.

"Is there something else I can do, Father? Besides praying?"

Richelieu took a moment to regain his senses, trying to remember what they had been talking about.

He swallowed. There was only one chance to regain what had been taken from him. Only one chance to prevent Vargas – and above all, Rochefort – from taking more. Richelieu would brave a wall of fire to feel Treville's touch again. He could only pray he would be given the chance to make up for his sins before damnation claimed him.

His gaze wandered back to the sideboard on which the heavy golden cross rested. Thankfully, he now possessed something besides faith to entice the guards.

"Perhaps there is."

  


* * *

  


When Richelieu went to sleep that night, his dreams were filled with touch. He dreamt of an innocent embrace. A gentle caress. Most of all he dreamt of want; of a demanding, hungry body covering his own, skin to skin. In his dreams, there was only one focus for this need: Only Treville had ever touched him like it was Armand who mattered; not the Cardinal, not the First Minister, not his wealth or the status and influence it brought to be seen on his arm – neither of which Treville could ever have.

Yet, even in his dreams, Richelieu remembered his isolation. Even in his dreams he could not have what he was missing. The hands at his waist, the lips on his cheek; they always withdrew before Richelieu could lose himself in their caress. Even in dreams Richelieu could not hide from the fears the day had woken. As his nightmares returned, the hands that had held him soon clutched a bleeding wound, turning red; red like the piping on the robes of the demon towering above him in the woods. This time it was Richelieu who was kneeling in the snow at the feet of his assassin, repeating his prayer over and over; "I love Jean. I love him." 

Upon waking in the morning, the first thing Richelieu did was to begin sketching the chateau's fortifications.

  


* * *

  


1 According to Dante, the souls of traitors (traitors to guests in particular) could be sent to hell before they died. Their soulless bodies would be taken over by a demon. 

2 The border to the Spanish Lowlands being so close to their capital caused the French a lot of anxiety during the 17th century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to theonenamedafterahat for suggesting the use of the Memorare in this chapter (and being extremely helpful with suggesting prayers in general).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you left the regiment because you believe you failed us, you were wrong."_

"Come for the final inspection, Minister?"

Treville lifted a bottle of wine in answer. Breaking into one of his rare smiles, Athos disappeared into his office, and returned with two cups. 

A few weeks ago Treville had hoped that office would one day be his again. As he poured the wine he found he felt wistful more than regretful. 

The attempt on his life had changed a lot. 

For one numbing second, lying face down in the muck of a Parisian street, Treville had thought it was over. There would be no more disfavour; no shame; no spectres from the past. No Heaven; no Hell; and no Armand. Just oblivion. Then the pain hit. It had been impossible not to fight it. Not to struggle for every breath, every heartbeat.

Memories of the immediate aftermath had merged together in a red haze of pain. As he had come to in his bed, Treville had started to remember calming words and soothing touches comforting him.

The first thing Treville had seen after regaining his senses was Porthos at the foot of his bed, watching over him despite everything that had occurred between them. As Lemay had ordered Treville to rest, Athos had taken it upon himself to ensure the garrison ran smoothly. Although Treville had insisted on him leaving the correspondence and remaining paperwork, Athos had organised the musketeers' daily practice and inspections, and dealt with all petitioners. Aramis had checked Treville's stiches, applied salves and changed the bandages with such care that Treville had accused him of mothering him. In the evenings the garrison had seemed quiet, but it had not been the oppressive, anxious silence that had plagued the men immediately after his dismissal. He liked to be modest in public about the musketeers' regard for him, but he could only presume that it had been a respectful, hopeful quiet to allow him his rest. 

Cared for and surrounded by his musketeers, Treville had felt as though he had resurfaced from the depths of the ocean.

"It's not a final inspection, I hope. Rather the first of many." They stood on the balcony, looking out over the busy courtyard. Below them musketeers were cleaning weapons, brushing their horses, and loading waggons. 

"Did I ever thank you for running the garrison while I was indisposed?" Treville asked.

"It was nothing." 

"I wonder if you'll still feel that way after the first couple of years."

"I expect the Spanish will provide enough distraction."

They fell silent for a moment. As Treville watched the men his heart was torn between pride and melancholy. The regiment would ride out at sunrise the next day. Not all of them would return. 

Treville sighed. "Nonetheless, I am grateful for what you did for me. I was not myself at the time."

"No need to apologise. I would have been a poor subordinate if I hadn't. And an even poorer friend. Besides, Rochefort and the King didn't make things easy for you."

Treville continued looking down into the courtyard, avoiding Athos' gaze. "It shouldn't have mattered."

During his recovery, the thought of almost losing his life to the assassin's pistol ball had not seemed as crushing to Treville as the realisation of all the all the duties and responsibilities he would have left abandoned had he died. The same responsibilities he had been denying since de Foix. Since Richelieu.

"I let you down."

Treville had been letting them all down. He had realised it even as he had been doing it. Fighting his apathy had seemed so impossible with that mountain of darkness on his shoulders that grew larger each day. Losing Richelieu. Losing de Foix _twice_. Losing the King's favour. Losing the _King_. He had almost lost himself. Sometimes Treville was amazed he had returned from Pinon. 

"You deserved a Captain who could pull himself together." 

"You did. You confronted Belgard, you told Porthos the truth, and you heard out my wife after I nearly doomed us by dismissing her." 

Athos' proclamation of faith made Treville look up. The musketeer looked so earnest. 

"Even though you were no longer our Captain in the eyes of the King, you continued to lead us when you did not have to. You there when the Queen needed you." Athos grimaced. "You were there to protect her from the trouble we had a hand in causing. If you left the regiment because you believe you failed us, you were wrong."

"That's not why I accepted this post."

As he had been recovering from the operation that saved his life, Treville had accepted that although the assassin's ball had momentarily stopped the darkness from growing, it was _he_ who needed to ask his musketeers to help him lift it of his back. It was he who needed to show them that he was a leader; not only on the fields of Pinon, but one who continued to lead when confronted by a Court whose favour he had lost, and who did not retreat when his dearest soldier begged him to stand up to his past. 

Once he had regained his strength, Treville had decided to start his quest for redemption by making amends where they were most needed. With Porthos.

How did you tell a man you had stolen his childhood? His mother's happiness? Having decided that Porthos deserved to make up his own mind about his Captain's sins, Treville had resolved to accept whatever judgement the musketeer passed. When Porthos had decided upon forgiveness, Treville had discovered, amongst his relief, that accepting his forgiveness was going to be its own journey – and a part of this journey included fulfilling the other duties he had shirked. 

The next time the King had offered to make him a minister, Treville had accepted.

He returned his attention to the men busying themselves in the courtyard. "We have been waiting for this war for so long. I always thought, when the day came…" Treville faltered.

"That you would lead us yourself." 

"The King had other plans for me. He needs me here, at his side."

"You would have been mad to refuse him a second time. "

Treville snorted. Below them he could see d'Artagnan and Porthos overseeing the loading of the carts. They looked strangely lonely with Athos up here and Aramis no longer with the regiment. Treville suppressed a sigh. If Richelieu had been around for the revelation of Aramis' secrets, he would have demanded that Treville disband the entire regiment at once. 

But not even in the moment of Aramis' confession, caught in a haze of shock and fury, would Treville have conceded. Despite individual trespasses, even of such magnitude, Treville knew they were good men; _his_ men, every last one of them. Including Aramis. Any new recruits would be entirely Athos' men, but they would be no worse for that.

"You will lead them well," he said.

"They are my brothers."

Treville looked at the new Captain, eyes hard. "They are more than that."

As Athos' frown deepened, Treville knew that he understood. Treville would never have offered this position to him if he didn't believe Athos was capable of understanding the power he held over these men and what sacrifices were required of him. Even though Treville would readily admit that transferring the Captaincy at a point in time when war had not just been declared would have been preferable.

"You are ready," he said. "And you've led men into battle before."

Athos sighed heavily. "Just never so many."

They both fell silent again, drinking together as they watched the men moving about in the courtyard. 

"It was time to leave the garrison," Treville said, causing Athos to shake himself out of a trance. "I guess I'm getting too old to lead another war from the front."

"You put up a good fight at Pinon."

Treville allowed a smile to flash across his face. Anything further they could have said was cut short as Porthos climbed up the stairs. 

"The waggons you asked for are ready, Captain."

Treville could barely stop himself from answering. Although he had given up the position willingly, he wondered if he would ever get used to someone else being addressed as "Captain" in his place. Porthos greeted him as _Minister_ with a broad smile a moment later, but Treville feared that his returning smile turned out somewhat despondent.

After Athos acknowledged the report with a nod and a curt thanks, only half able to hide a smile of his own, Treville took the moment to excuse himself. "I'm keeping you from your work," he said.

"No, no, please. Stay. All my packing is done, and the men can direct themselves for a moment."

It was a tempting offer, despite Treville's plans for the evening. But he didn't want to be seen lingering around the garrison for too long when Athos already had so little time to establish his command before he led his regiment to war. 

"There is something else I have to do tonight."

"Of course. You must be busy, Minister." 

Treville sighed. "That too."

Private, reserved soul that he was, Athos did not ask for details. He offered his hand for a comradely shake and Treville took it. 

"I'll try to be here when you move out at dawn, but the King calls his councils early these days." 

Athos swept his gaze across the courtyard again. "This is not your last look, Minister. You'll grow sick of the sight of us, eventually."

Treville smiled. "I hope so."

Before he could take his leave and descend the stairs, Porthos pulled him into an embrace. Treville left the garrison feeling warm from more than the wine.

  


* * *

  


Treville walked back to his office without delay. Having made sure that his clerks had been dismissed for the night, he shrugged off his coat and sat down behind his desk. 

The office Richelieu had kept in the Louvre was inconspicuous compared to the wing in the Palais Cardinal that had housed his audience hall and main office. Barred from moving into the Palais by the King who intended to save it for his son, Rochefort had taken over the office immediately after he had been admitted into the King's council. Now it belonged to Treville. 

He had resisted reversing all the changes Rochefort had made to it, although the notion of painting his family crest all over the late Comte's furniture had been as tempting as it was childish. Treville had made subtler alterations instead. He had brought in his old desk from the garrison, throwing out the monstrosity Rochefort had preferred, and had a small cot installed in one of the former secret spaces. 

Treville had been given proper apartments at the palace, but he expected the cot to come in handy sooner or later. He had always wondered how Richelieu had managed to have any time left to himself when he had been First Minister. Now that he was Minister for War, Treville still wondered.

Preparing for this war had been one of Richelieu's chief concerns in office, but Rochefort had made good use of the few weeks he had inhabited the position to dismantle what he could of Richelieu's work. The murder of Princess Louise that had turned French-Swedish relations into a diplomatic nightmare had been only the tip of the iceberg. 

When it was not the war effort that occupied Treville, it was the courtiers, or – worst of all – the councillors who were constantly trying to renegotiate old agreements they correctly presumed he knew next to nothing of. Since taking this position he been forced to heavily rely on his chief secretary, Eugène de Favre, in order to side-step the courtiers' attempts to dupe him. 

In all his years as Captain of the Musketeers Treville had never employed a secretary before. Now he had three of them.

At least Favre agreed that shouting the council into submission was a valid strategy, since Treville had no talent for bribing or seducing them. All he had to persuade them were the hard facts of how the war was progressing, and a lifetime of experience to back them up. Preserving their lives and their wealth had so far been an effective argument.

Opening the bottle of wine that he had left on his desk, Treville poured two cups.

At Pinon he had basked in the feeling of being a simple soldier, free from politics, wondering if he would have been happier had he never set a foot into the Royal Palace. Now he was a politician. A civilian. The Court had devoured him wholly, but although he felt nostalgic for the life he once led, he had few regrets. 

If he had never joined the Royal Court, and stayed a simple soldier, he would never have been given the chance to raise the newly crowned King's foremost guard regiment. He would never have found Porthos. 

He would never have met Armand. 

Treville sighed. He would be lying if he claimed not to miss Richelieu, but recently he had been thinking less of their parting, and more of the time they had spent together. The more he thought of what they had shared, the more the fond memories began to overshadow the pain.

Treville raised his glass to his lips. "We're at war now," he said, looking at the remaining cup on the desk. "The musketeers are leaving in the morning, and I am staying here, where you would have been." Waiting for his voice to return, Treville took a drink. "It is the war you tried to prepare us for. I know I am a greater support for the King in my new position than I would have been with the musketeers. Still, to watch them move without me…" He took another drink. 

"The work–" he shook his head. "But you _knew_ about the work, of course. I still can't work the Court the way you did. I have to threaten where you would have seduced. Lord knows how this will turn out, once the war is over and Louis doesn't need me as much." If he even lived to see the end of the war. His previous position had allowed him to watch most of the endless games of deception played at Court from afar, but a minister had to engage many more structures of hierarchy than a bodyguard who relied on no one but the King for his power. Treville was now expected to take sides in the constant war of intrigue. And in this war, losing Royal favour again could prove far more deadly. 

Treville remembered the many plots against the Cardinal with a heavy heart. It seemed a miracle that he had succumbed to an illness instead of an enemy's scheming. Noticing that he had been reaching for the fresh scar on his back, Treville realised he had a taste of that life already. 

"I can never be you." Oppressive thoughts of Court intrigue retreated before memories of Pinon. "And I can't be who I thought I was. Things have changed so much since we first set out on this path. Sometimes— sometimes I miss being twenty. I miss us, the way we were. I miss you." 

Treville stared into his wine. 

"But I cannot build this kingdom as you would have. I can't continue your work. I can only build on it. I know you probably would have hated every step on the way, but France will endure. Thanks to you."

Treville emptied his cup, setting it down next to its twin. _This is it then_. 

He picked up the second cup to empty it onto the carpet. Since the thing had been added to the office by Rochefort, Treville decided he wouldn't miss it. Perhaps he could convince Louis to sell him one from the Palais Cardinal as a replacement.

 _To old friends,_ he thought, watching the last drops fall. _To love._

  


* * *

  


"The Señor is back at the chateau."

Richelieu nodded grimly, before remembering that Annette couldn't see it. "You had better return to your work then, child."

Annette agreed. Before she left she added, "he did not look pleased."

 _Vargas rarely looks pleased, unless he's standing in a torture chamber_ , Nevertheless, Richelieu was grateful for her warning. If she was right about the spymaster's mood, dinner could prove interesting. 

Over the past few weeks, Annette had returned to talk and pray with Richelieu whenever she deemed it safe. For a while this meant that she visited him every other day, until Richelieu had told her that _he_ would consider it safer if she reduced the frequency of her visits. Even her friend among the guards would eventually have begun to question her intentions if he caught her sneaking into the tower without supervision too often.

Yet, Richelieu was grateful for each of her visits. He was astonished at how much he had missed the sound of a friendly voice. Apart from the impact her loyalty had on his troubled thoughts, her visits also proved fruitful in terms of information. 

According to Annette, men came and went every day. She didn't know who they were, but from her descriptions Richelieu gathered that they were mainly couriers, but yet others had to be agents or their handlers. Those Richelieu deduced belonged to the latter group sometimes arrived with a small escort, or asked to be given one from the chateau. It appeared that highwaymen were as much of an issue on the roads of the Spanish Lowlands as they were in parts of France. Annette claimed the guards sometimes mentioned that they had been ordered to accompany one of these men to the French border – if not across it – which was exactly what Richelieu needed.

He also learned that Vargas left the chateau often, presumably for one of the big cities nearby, where he could comfortably keep contact with ranked officials of the Spanish Crown. Whenever Vargas left the chateau his armed escort comprised half of the men stationed at the chateau, as befitted a Spanish knight traveling in the service of Spain's First Minister. The soldiers stationed here were mostly his, save the half a dozen men Raveau, or "Cuervo", employed as his personal guard. 

Raveau's inability to staff and furnish his own chateau, as well as his occasional unease around Vargas at dinner, led Richelieu to believe that the Caballero had allowed Vargas to turn the place into his private prison and torture chamber less out of patriotism or personal regard for the spymaster, and more out of substantial financial troubles.

Although Annette knew nothing of her master's exact financial situation, Richelieu could tell that she had her doubts about him as well. It was a theory to be tested and exploited, but the evenings that the spymaster spent away from the chateau were ones when Richelieu would not be invited to join the Caballero for dinner. 

Perhaps Raveau could be persuaded to break whatever promise he had made to Vargas. But how to go about it, when they never met without oversight?

Annette had smuggled notes out of his cell before; either hidden under the cover of the silver tray when she took away his cleaned dishes, or brazenly taken through the hatch at the bottom of the door. But approaching servants and soldiers closer to her own station was a different thing from proposing treason to her Lord. If Raveau was unappreciative of Richelieu's proposal and found out it had been Annette who had delivered the message, Richelieu did not want to imagine what would happen to her. 

With her, he would lose his only contact to the world outside his cell beyond his jailers. 

_Cluzet. Rochefort. Treville._ Richelieu's sins were bountiful. There was no need to add Annette's name to the list just yet. 

Thinking of Treville, Richelieu felt his heart sink. It had been weeks since Vargas had first told Richelieu of the shooting, but so far Annette had not been able to find out what had happened to Treville. The guards hadn't heard of any assassinations having taken place in Paris and she had been understandably reluctant to pry further. She was in no position to talk to the visiting agents, and none of their conversation she had managed to overhear had pertained to the Captain of the Musketeers. 

The only _Jean_ s Vargas brought up at dinner were people who had once been in Richelieu's service, or men he had met at seminary. Vargas watched Richelieu's reaction to each name he mentioned closely, seemingly ignorant of having mentioned the only Jean that mattered weeks ago.

This state of uncertainty was its own kind of torture. It turned walking in the gardens into an unbearable chore. It turned the most savoury roast and the sweetest wine to ash in Richelieu's mouth. In his dreams he was forever professing his love for Treville to his assassin, in a dead winter forest. The thought of it was enough to make him tremble. 

As much as his worries threatened to paralyse him, Richelieu knew he had to remain focused. If Annette was right about Vargas staying at the Chateau tonight, the guards would soon arrive to take him to the dining hall. Richelieu could not face Vargas with thoughts of Treville's uncertain fate on his mind. Vargas may have been the only one who knew the answers Richelieu burned for, but he was also the last person to whom Richelieu could reveal just how much Treville's life mattered to him. The spymaster could never know that it had been concern for Treville that had caused Richelieu's earlier outburst, lest he realised that he possessed even more effective means than shackles or bars to trap Richelieu. 

_Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial._ The cross and the rosary were gone now. If he endured and hoped, he might see his plans bear fruit. To endure included attending dinner with a focused mind and sitting through Vargas' thinly veiled attempts to trick him into talking about French foreign policy, or the most exploitable vices of Louis' domestic enemies. 

By the time the guards picked him up, Richelieu had banished all outward signs of his anxiety over Treville's fate and Vargas' mood. As he entered the dining hall, Richelieu realised that he would not have been able to tell that anything was amiss without Annette's warning. The disparaging smile on Vargas' face that greeted him looked only marginally tighter than usual, the table had been set in the same way as every evening, and as he was unable to mention the topics that moved his soul, Richelieu focused on deflecting Vargas' conversation about the French Court as vaguely as usual. They got through the fish course before something about their routine changed. Raveau excused himself from the table with a sour expression, causing Vargas to roll his eyes at the Caballero. 

Richelieu's heartbeat quickened. "Our small gathering appears to be breaking up," he remarked as Raveau walked out of the door. The servants had disappeared alongside him. 

"Please remain seated, Cardinal," Vargas said, as Richelieu made as if to rise as well. 

Richelieu could hear a second guard joining the one customarily standing behind his seat. Upon a gesture from Vargas one of the guards slipped a piece of paper onto the table next to Richelieu. It was one of his drawings of the chateau's fortifications – the parts he could see from his tower cell and the gardens, enhanced with some of the information Annette provided.

"It is a nice sketch, Your Eminence, although I believe you exaggerated the curve in the north wall slightly."

"I try to dab a hand at each of the fine arts."

Vargas's expression hardened. "Do you know where we found this?"

Richelieu could imagine, and the thought turned his stomach.

"We took it off a guardsman. He also had with him the rosary I had returned to you. Do you have any idea how it found its way into his hands?"

Richelieu stayed silent. Even had he wanted to reply, Richelieu doubted he could have forced words through his constricting throat.

"Ah, I see that you are taking this seriously now. I have men – other men – searching the tower at this very moment, under supervision from one of my more trusted associates. What will they find there? Will they find the cross I returned to you also, as a sign of good faith? Since I doubt that you will tell me where it is if I ask you, I have scheduled a meeting with Miguel for your unfortunate trading partner. Perhaps he will prove more talkative."

More blood on Richelieu's hands. He reminded himself that the guard had to have known the risk he was taking, by agreeing to carry Richelieu's message. A message that Vargas had failed to produce along with the sketch, just as he had failed to find the message and the sketch Richelieu had given up with the cross.

"Is this how you repay the Caballero's hospitality?" Vargas sighed. "You were doing so well, Cardinal, but I see now that I have been too lenient with you. I hope you realise that you will not be returning to the tower?"

Richelieu felt oddly numb as he remembered his cell in the dungeon. He had hoped to have seen the last of it. 

"All of this comes on top of the sad news that our mutual acquaintance, Rochefort, overstepped his bounds and is no more."

"I warned you!"

Vargas shrugged. "All the damage he did was to the French Crown. It may please you to hear that our nations are finally at war. King Louis entrusted me personally with ensuring that the good news will reach my King, who has been preparing for this day for years." Vargas appeared disappointed when Richelieu showed no reaction. "I was in Paris only a couple of days ago," he continued. "Monsieur de Treville asked me to intercede in the matter of Rochefort on behalf of your King." A smug smile spread across Vargas' face. "It appears things are falling apart without you, if Louis' lackeys have to ask _me_ for help."

Richelieu had stopped breathing. Vargas was free to insinuate he had seen the Four Horsemen ride across the sky for all he cared. Vargas had spoken to Treville; the topic did not matter. _Treville was alive_. 

Richelieu could not keep a small smile from flashing across his face. He didn't care what Vargas would make of his reaction; his mind was occupied with more important matters.

Vargas didn't know what had happened to the cross, he had found neither of the messages Richelieu had written, and _Jean was alive_. Moreover, Rochefort was dead and would not get another chance to harm Treville. 

_God was truly great._

It took Richelieu a moment to focus on Vargas' words again.

"As unfortunate as the Comte's passing may seem, we have other assets we are going to make better use of. Such as you."

At the wave of his hand the doors to the dining hall opened and in streamed a flood of guards. They soon filled up the room as they surrounded the table. The warm feeling that had begun to spread through Richelieu's body arrested its advance at the sight of their stony faces.

"So many guards? Just for an old Cardinal?"

Vargas' expression was hellish. "They're not here to guard you," he snarled. "They're here to watch."

At that moment the two guards at Richelieu's side pulled the chair out from under him – catching his arms just before he hit the floor. Richelieu gasped as they pulled him to his feet, doubled him over, and roughly pressed his chest against the table top.

He struggled in their grip instinctively, but only achieved having his arms twisted onto his back.

"Ah!"

 _This wasn't right._ They weren't even in the dungeon. This was the dining hall where everyone pretended to be civil.

Richelieu tried to breathe calmly through the pain, as he heard Vargas walking around the table towards him. Whatever the Spaniard was about to do to him, it didn't change the fact that the assassin had failed. Treville was alive and the golden cross was on its way to Paris with a message for him. He would come.

"I won't ask you what you did with the cross," Vargas said. "But I see that I made another mistake. In my mercy I allowed you to forget what you are, and what I am."

Richelieu bit his tongue. He could tell Vargas exactly what he was, but he didn't enjoy pain that much. 

"What are you, Cardinal?"

Richelieu cast a look around the room as best as he could. The guards appeared to be everywhere, an armoured wall surrounding the table. From the position he was in he couldn't make out their faces.

"I'm a prisoner. You kidnapped me."

He could practically _hear_ Vargas roll his eyes.

"I told you – the guards are here to watch. Thanks to you, all of them know now what happens to traitors. So—" Richelieu almost swallowed his tongue in surprise as he felt Vargas' hand on his neck. Vargas had never touched him before. He'd always left it to others to dirty their hands. 

"—what are you?"

Richelieu shut his eyes. _Treville is alive._

Vargas's fingers tapped against his skin, contemplative. "What am _I_?"

"My jailer."

Richelieu cried out as Vargas dug his fingers into his neck. Stars danced in front of his eyes.

"I'm your master, and you are a dog!" 

None of the guards moved.

"It's my fault that you forgot." Vargas withdrew his hand and Richelieu gulped down a deep breath. His eyes stung with fresh tears. 

"I allowed you paper and quills because I was curious, but of course, dogs don't write and dogs don't sketch," Vargas continued, sounding almost rueful. "During our last session I told you that dogs needed a bone. Do you know what dogs _don't_ need?"

The door opened again and Richelieu could see Miguel enter, carrying a bag.

Richelieu shut his eyes again. _He didn't find the cross, and Treville is safe._ "I'm sure you will tell me, Vargas"

"Hands to write." 

The guards pulled Richelieu's right arm forward and pressed his hand palm-down onto the table.

"No!" Richelieu needed his hands. He _needed_ to write. Otherwise he'd go mad.

"No? _No what_? You're _begging_ to be chastised."

Richelieu tried to struggle, to kick, but his feet met only air and his hands and shoulders might have been stuck in a vice. 

"Miguel, bring us a cleaver."

"No!" Richelieu gritted his teeth. It didn't matter what he told Vargas. The cross would be in Paris soon. The King would know what had happened to him, where he was. _Treville_ would know. 

He would see him again. He would _touch_ him again.

"No!" he shouted. All he needed to do was to ensure he'd be in a condition to escape when rescue arrived. "No, _Master!_ "

Out of the corners of his eyes he could see Miguel pause, and dared to breathe again. 

Vargas leaned over him. "Are you a dog?"

Richelieu looked at the faceless soldiers surrounding him. Vargas had summoned them to witness his humiliation. To watch him be pinned on a table like an insect, to be humiliated or mutilated. Richelieu blinked the tears away as the pressure on his wrist and hand sent spikes of pain up through his entire arm.

Once he was free he would make sure none of the guards ever breathed a word of what they had witnessed.

"Perhaps we'll take your fingers instead." Vargas picked up a knife from the table. "One by one."

Richelieu pressed his eyes shut and thought of _hands_ — hands brushing against each other in a crowded audience hall, fingers intertwining. He thought of running his fingers over Treville's body, feeling his heated skin beneath his palms. Of holding Treville's wrists against the mattress as he slid against him; feeling the beat of Treville's pulse beneath his fingertips.

"I'm your dog," Richelieu breathed. It didn't matter what he said. Saying it didn't make it true. And it didn't matter who heard – as long as it wasn't Treville.

"Good boy." Richelieu could hear Vargas' smile in the tone of his voice. "I'll make sure you won't forget it again so quickly."

Vargas waved Miguel over and Richelieu flinched in the guards' grasp.

"Please!" He had said the words – what else could Vargas _want?_

"Ah, you can keep your fingers." Triumph echoed in Vargas' tone. "What a dog needs, is a collar."

Richelieu's breath caught in his throat as memories of metal rings and spikes flashed in front of his eyes. From the moment he'd first seen the neck brace in the torture chamber he'd known Vargas would make him wear it someday.

He stilled, making himself think of Treville kissing his fingers. He wanted that again. He could have it again. _Treville was safe. Rochefort's plan had failed._ A wave of warmth washed through Richelieu at the thought. _And the cross was going to Paris._ He'd suffer any discomfort so long as that truth remained.

As long as Treville was alive, he'd wear a collar of knives.

Slowly, reluctantly he looked up at Miguel. What the torturer pulled out of his bag wasn't the spiked neck brace. It was a leather collar, as for a dog. 

Richelieu gritted his teeth, thinking of hands – Treville's hands, calloused and rough, but oh so gentle as they ran through his hair – until they pulled.

Richelieu gasped as fingers twisted in his hair, pressing his face against the table and holding his head still as Miguel approached with the collar. It was Vargas – Vargas' fingers in his hair, holding him down. Richelieu blinked back tears. He wanted to shout. To order Vargas to take his hands away, but he had to remain composed. For Treville. Wearing Vargas' collar was a minor blow compared to how he would have suffered if Treville had died.

As the leather tightened around his neck he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly, quietly. There was no clasp. They had to sew the ends together. Despite his best efforts, Richelieu could feel himself tremble.

_One day he would kill Vargas._

Slowly, the guards released his arms and allowed Richelieu to sit down again. He folded his hands in his lap to resist the temptation to tug at the collar. He sat back calmly, seeking the faces of the guards opposite, looking each of them in the eyes.

He was not finished, and they would regret what they had seen.

Richelieu shook off the urge to swipe away the hand one of the guards put on his shoulder. What did a decade of torment mean, as long as Treville was safe?

"Miguel is looking forward to our next session, Cardinal." Vargas turned towards the torturer. "We'll have to discuss what can be done about the Cardinal's clever fingers."

As the guards pulled him out of his seat, Richelieu remained calm. Whatever Vargas and his torturer did to him, it could not be as painful as thinking about what the assassin could have taken. Richelieu reminded himself that his shout for help had escaped his prison; that Treville was alive; that one day he might touch him again. Until then he could carry his memories of the life that waited for him outside close to his heart. 

But still Richelieu shivered as he was led down the steps to the cellar. All his confidence did not change the truth that, regardless of whether or not the torture awaiting him was as painful as his mental anguish, it would still _hurt_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last bit of on-screen torture. 
> 
> Next time: Treville receives a special delivery.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Again and again Treville had told Richelieu – in anger – that one day he would regret having made enemies of the musketeers. But this was worse than he had imagined._

There were no windows in the dungeon under the fortress of Corbie. What little torchlight fell through the iron bars of the cell door barely allowed a man to see. 

The prisoners of this gloom felt the weight of the fortress atop them at every moment. They were the men that no one would pay a ransom for. The ones no one would petition the courts for. They were lost. The dead who were yet walking. Or who _would_ be walking, if they had not been shackled to the walls. 

More often than not, they were spies abandoned by their masters. This was exactly the case with Aramis, formerly of the King's Musketeers. Taking a shaky breath, he told himself that things could have been far worse, despite how much the moist, stuffy air and the leaden darkness around him insisted otherwise. 

He closed his eyes against the gloom, leaning his head against the wall. Next to him, his cellmate emitted a tortured noise that was half curse, half sob.

"This is not time for despair, Gutiérrez," Aramis said. "While we live there is hope of escape."

A stranger chained to the wall opposite laughed. It was the first sound he had made since he had been thrown into their cell. "If you believe what you are saying, then you are deluded." There was a Basque accent to his Spanish, but it was not distinct enough to identify his origins with any certainty. "We're all going to die here."

Gutiérrez cursed him violently, and Aramis shuddered. 

"Shut up!"

The stranger ignored him.

"The only time anyone ever leaves one of these cells is when they take you for interrogation. Few return."

"Stop!"

The stranger laughed again. It made the hairs on Aramis' neck stand on end. 

"It doesn't matter what you tell those bastards. They will go on asking their questions as if you hadn't spoken. They don't care about your answers so much as an opportunity to use their pretty tools."

Aramis swallowed. "How do you know about this? From the guards? They're lying. They're trying to get a laugh out of your fear."

"I know because I was one of them. I was a jailer."

Gutiérrez sucked in a quick breath. "What happened to you, you bastard?"

"Slept with my mate's wife. The arse claimed that I was a spy – on account of my accent."

"You are here because of your _accent_?" 

Through the dim light, Aramis could just make out the stranger shrugging. "There might've been some looting, too."

To be thrown in here the stranger's "looting" had to have included nothing short of murder. 

The sound of footsteps interrupted their conversation. Aramis was almost grateful for it, but at his side Gutiérrez cursed again.

"You better prepare yourselves, boys," the stranger said. "The torturer here is an utter bastard."

"Shit!"

Aramis' shackles allowed him to touch Gutiérrez' arm, but just barely. "Believe me, my friend, you _will_ see the sunlight again."

"Right. When they take him to his execution."

As the guards unlocked the door, Aramis heard Gutiérrez' chains clank as he dug his fingers into the lining of his doublet. Aramis tried to see what his friend was pulling out of there, but the guard waved his torch in front of his face, momentarily blinding him.

"Hey! I have to show you something," Gutiérrez' French was free of any accent. "See this?" 

The guard stepped back, and Aramis finally saw that Gutiérrez was holding up a piece of jewellery. A golden cross. "Is this—?"

But the Spaniard talked over him; "I have more. Here, touch it. It's pure gold." He held the cross out for the guard to touch, but kept a firm grip on the fine chain. "It's chaos out there, with the General moving out and the French moving in. No one will notice two more soldiers, if you catch my meaning."

The guard's eyes lit up with interest.

"If you let us out, you can have the rest. I don't have it here, but I can tell you— Hey!"

The guard had ripped the cross out of Gutiérrez' hand, snapping the chain. 

"See? It's real gold." Gutiérrez tried to sound composed. "Just let Alameda and me go and you can have the rest. No one will notice us. If you—"

Ignoring him, the guard pocketed the cross and turned to Aramis. "You! On your feet!" He released Aramis' chains from the ring in the wall. "There's someone special who wants to hear you talk."

"No!" Gutiérrez yelled as though he was the one about to be taken away. "At least give that cross back, you bastard!"

Aramis rose to his feet, casting one last look at Gutiérrez. "This is not the end. We _will_ get out of here."

"The Minister will decide that," the guard said. 

As Aramis was being shoved out of the cell, he could hear the stranger laughing. He was led out of the hellish gloom of the cells through a corridor, up a long staircase, and out through a guardhouse until they finally stood in the sunlit courtyard. Aramis breathed a sigh of relief.

"That Minister you mentioned would not happen to be Minister _Treville_ , by any chance?"

"How should I know what these nobs are called? I take my orders from the prison governor and ask no questions." 

"The perfect jail warden," Aramis said. 

The guard gave him a sour look before removing his chains. "I guess you need this?" 

Aramis took the offered golden cross. "You spared me from having to ask nicely. Thank you."

The guard grunted unhappily. 

"Your man in the cell played his part well," Aramis said. A compliment was a poor exchange for a piece of gold, but it was all he had to offer.

The guard looked at him in confusion. "Our man? What are you talking about?"

Aramis froze momentarily before the guard broke into a grin and patted Aramis' shoulder patronisingly.

"There are soldiers here to take you to the Minister." 

Catching sight of the soldiers the guard was pointing at, Aramis broke into a large grin of his own.

  


* * *

  


Treville rode into the conquered city at his King's side, watching impassively as the city's civilian Governor threw himself into the dust in front of Louis' horse. The scene was a less impressive repeat of the spectacle Treville had witnessed earlier in the day, when the Spanish General had grovelled in front of the victorious King of France. 

Unlike the General, the Governor was spared from having to kiss the King's boots. After six weeks of siege, Louis was more interested in finally being presented with the key to the city.

Once war had been declared, the Spanish had wasted no time. They struck without warning. Within days of war being declared they crossed the river Somme that made up the border between France and the Spanish Lowlands and descended upon the heavily fortified towns that had been guarding the border for a century. 

The invaders had ravaged the Northern borderlands practically unopposed, until they had taken this city. 

_Corbie_. One of the strongest fortresses along the Somme, and only a few hours of forced marching away from Paris. The French fortifications had proven of little use, as the garrisons had been massively outmanned and outgunned by the Spanish army. Once Corbie had fallen, the Spanish had been in a perfect position to decapitate their enemy with a coup de main. To say that Paris had been seized by panic would have been an understatement.

The threat had been serious enough for the King himself to drop all other concerns and put himself at the head of the greatest French army of the age in order to pay the invaders back in kind. 

The enemy had surrendered not only to overwhelming force, but to hunger, having been foolish enough to lay waste to the surrounding countryside before securing adequate supplies. It would have posed less of a problem if they had marched on Paris before the French had time to mount a siege. Thankfully, after taking Corbie, the Spanish had wasted their time with raiding the borderlands instead of pushing their advantage; a fatal strategic error that had saved Paris from catastrophe.1

After six weeks of fighting and five days of negotiation, Corbie was finally back in French hands. The Spanish garrison had been allowed a free retreat, under the condition that they left behind any movables, including their cannons. Any officials of the Spanish Crown had to stay behind in order to hand over any documents that could be of use to the French, including documentation of their spoils of war. 

French magistrates would have to deal with that. Magistrates now working for _him_ ; damn their eyes.

Treville sighed. He directed his horse to stay close to the King as they made their way to the castle, surrounded by the King's bodyguard of musketeers. 

Corbie's Governor followed them on foot, looking no less tense than when he had thrown himself at the King's mercy; and with good reason. Louis had ordered the Commanders of the erstwhile French garrison of the town to be put to death as soon as news of their capitulation had reached Paris. They had surrendered the city to the Spanish without a fight, retreating to Amiens, where they had abandoned their troops and reportedly made their way downriver to the nearest seaport. 

As soon as the King could find the time they were to be burned in effigy.

Treville didn't like to think about what he would have done in the commanders' place. To fight would have meant certain death as they had been outnumbered thirty to one. Yet they had committed treason by surrendering their charge without resistance. 

Once the King's party arrived at the castle they joined Captain Athos in the audience hall. He had been one of the first into the city after the Spanish had moved out to ensure that it was safe for the King to enter. 

Enjoying a moment of idleness, Treville watched as Louis continued the ritual of taking charge over the city and its fortifications – until he was pulled aside by a clerk who reminded him that liberating an occupied city created a lot of paperwork. He followed the man reluctantly after casting an envious look at Athos, who tried not to look too bored as he stood at the King's side.

In the rooms housing the city archives the King's clerks were already at work, ready and eager to fill in the unfortunate Minister on what needed to be done. Treville's frown darkened with every word. 

Even before Treville had taken a look at the paperwork he knew that he did _not_ envy whoever had to clean up Corbie.

Neither the Spanish nor the French before them had stocked enough provisions to endure a siege. Since the eventual Spanish garrison had been three times the size of its unfortunate French counterpart, it had consumed the available supplies even faster. Perhaps the siege would have lasted longer if the invaders had not torched the surrounding villages before taking the fortress. After only six weeks, some of the defenders had already grown too weak to hold a musket straight. 

With winter so close and the countryside ravaged by the marauding Spaniards and the entrenched French army, it would not be an easy task to keep Corbie and its dependencies fed – even if the Spanish decided _not_ to attack the city again any time soon. 

Treville was going to postpone worrying about that until after the last corpses had been burned to stave off plague. After the Spanish officials had delivered all documents of interest to their French counterparts. After the prisoners – suspected collaborators and spies – had been questioned, and any traitors executed. 

All this would have to be done in addition to keeping an army disciplined, in a region that had been brought to its knees within just a few weeks of war.

Whomever Louis eventually decided to settle with the governorship of Corbie was looking at an unenviable mountain of work.

"Treville!"

He took a deep breath. The King had joined them, wearing that strict expression that didn't brook any opposition. 

"Treville, I want you to go to Amiens as soon as possible and personally arrange the restocking of this place. And I want fresh soldiers for Corbie's garrison."

Treville could not hide his sigh of relief. "Right now, Your Majesty?" He had been looking forward to a proper bed if nothing else, but he would gladly ride through the night if it took him away from the mountain of office work at Corbie. 

Louis appeared to be taking in the swarm of clerks for the first time. "Well, when can you leave? I can trust no one else to do it right!"

The King's outburst brought a grim smile to Treville's lips. _How things had changed since Rochefort's death._

Since his secretaries were not to be seen, – the archives were not the only problem requiring the Minister's attention – Treville directed his attention towards the nearest clerk, who looked as if he would have shrugged if his questioner had been anyone but the King. 

"We have barely begun our work, Your Majesty." As the man squirmed under the King's scrutiny, Treville decided to rescue him.

"I have not yet had the opportunity to speak to the magistrates, outside of negotiating the capitulation; but if Your Majesty wishes me to leave for Amiens immediately—"

"No, no – speak with them first." The King's expression darkened at the mention of the magistrates who had remained in the city during the occupation. No one could have expected these men to offer a resistance that the French garrison sworn to protect them had eschewed, but that didn't mean the King trusted them. 

Corbie's garrison had returned from Amiens to join other regiments as soon as the siege had begun, winning back their honour in battle, but their unfortunate commanders would do well to remain in their self-imposed exile for a long time. The King's fury over the garrison's initial withdrawal had kept him focused during the siege. It seemed that it kept simmering even after hostilities had ceased.

Taking a deep breath, Louis put on a more cheerful royal mask. "Besides, we finally have something to celebrate, Treville. I want the people to see that the threat of a coup de main against Paris has passed, and I want my Minister of War at the festivities. Every one of my subjects in Corbie will have wine and food."

Treville bowed. He did not envy whoever had the questionable honour to organise these celebrations.

"Of course, Minister, you will have to discuss any security measures for this event with the Captain of my Musketeers."

Treville sighed. _Bloody hell._

  


* * *

  


As soon as possible, Treville abandoned the clerks, magistrates and Spanish officials in the archives, retreating to the empty office that Favre had claimed for him. More pleasant work awaited him there. He had barely entered the office before the clerk stationed in the antechamber announced that the Captain of the Musketeers had arrived, accompanied by three of his men. 

The moment they stepped through the door Treville descended upon them to shake their hands. Since it was the musketeers' duty to stay close to the King whenever he was in the field, Treville had already reunited with Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan during the siege, but this did not diminish Treville's joy at seeing them again outside of battle, unharmed. 

And then there was Aramis.

Treville hadn't seen him in months. His mission had been the most uncertain. All of Treville's misgivings about the musketeer's past conduct were washed away by the joy of seeing him alive and well. Despite the chaos he had almost plunged their country into through a treason of passion, Aramis would always be one of Treville's men; a musketeer, one of the best marksmen to ever serve in the regiment. And, due to his Spanish heritage, their best candidate to infiltrate King Philip's web of spies.

"Pardon my dishevelled appearance, Minister," Aramis said, once Treville had released him. Apart from his dirty clothes and the fact that he needed a shave, the musketeer did not look worse for wear. "These brutes," he gestured to d'Artagnan and Porthos, "didn't give me an opportunity to change before they took me to see you."

"You're vain enough as it is," Porthos said, grinning, causing Aramis to flick his hair. 

Treville allowed himself a brief smile before returning to business. "I heard of your exploits from the Governor. You were caught burning important documents as the Spanish prepared to move out." 

Athos continued for him. "The Governor ensured the King that he personally convinced the General to turn you over or suffer the consequences of breaching the terms of his capitulation." The Captain's voice was dripping with his usual sarcasm. It was more likely that the Spanish General had offered up the blundering spies to the Governor willingly in order to protect the freedom and honour of the rest of his men. Something the Governor would have kept quiet so he could impress the King with his skills of persuasion. 

Aramis smiled. " _Something_ must have blocked up the fireplace we were using for all that smoke to form that betrayed us. Or _someone_. If not for that unfortunate accident all of King Philip's secrets would have safely burnt away." 

Remembering the amounts of paperwork waiting for him, Treville found his enthusiasm for the rescued documents was somewhat limited. But Aramis wouldn't have risked blowing his cover for documents he didn't deem vital. 

"Your co-conspirator?" Treville asked. 

"Does not suspect a thing. He was quite distraught when I was released. He thought I was being dragged off to be tortured." 

The musketeers' expressions turned grim as they contemplated this image. Aramis himself had lost some of his joviality. The sight worried Treville, but this was neither the time nor the place to question whether Aramis was still comfortable with his new employment. Not after they had been caught off-guard by a Spanish invasion.

"How long have you been working with him?" 

"About two months," Aramis said, and Treville nodded to himself. Aramis – or Renato de Alameda as he was known to the Spanish – had only been recruited by enemy agents at the outbreak of war, three months ago. Gutiérrez would have been one of the first partners Aramis had been assigned by his new employers. Already he had been forced to betray him. 

"We were supposed to move on to Amiens, but were stuck here when the siege began."

"Is Spain about to attack Amiens?" Amiens, also situated at the banks of the Somme, was one of the richest, best fortified places in all of France. Before the shock of the sudden invasion, Treville would have considered the place almost impossible to take without a year-long siege, but after Corbie Treville refused to rule anything out. 

"I don't think so. Not after they lost Corbie so quickly. But since we've been cut off from our contacts for six weeks you may not want to rely on my word alone."

Treville rubbed his beard in thought. "How fast can you make contact again?"

"If Gutiérrez and I happened to escape? Very. He's well-connected. A couple of days at maximum. This is what I have been meaning to tell someone since we got stuck here." He lowered his voice, whether for dramatic effect or genuine fear of being overheard Treville could not tell. "Vargas is close by."

"How close?" No news of Vargas was ever good news – unless it involved someone finally separating the spymaster's head from his shoulders. Treville hadn't forgotten the threats Vargas had made against the musketeers three months ago, and Porthos in particular. 

"He's been busy in the Spanish Lowlands, at least since the war started. He keeps a base at a chateau near Arras. The place was originally intended as a summer residence for a minor noble, by the name of Raveau. Since the man fell on hard times after the chateau's completion, he rented it out to the Spanish crown. Now Vargas holes up there whenever he has business in the southern Lowlands. It's close enough to our borders and large cities like Arras and Lille to keep an eye on the war effort, but remote enough for him not to be disturbed in any of his more secret work by any nosy locals who could drop a word into the wrong ears."

D'Artagnan frowned. "What's he doing there that he can't do in a private house in Arras?"

"That, my friend," Aramis continued, "is the interesting bit. Well, even _more_ interesting. The chateau also serves as a prison for personages the Spanish Crown prefers to keep hidden even from its own people."

"Political prisoners," Treville concluded. _Like de Foix._ The memory quickened his pulse.

"Most likely. The last time Gutiérrez was there, Vargas' sole prisoner was believed to be a high-ranking French clergyman."

"He doesn't know for sure?"

"Vargas does not confirm or deny the identity of his prisoners to just any agent, but the guards at the chateau believed he is a Cardinal. The man decided to make trouble by appealing to their Catholic faith."

"Would that not speak _against_ him being a high-ranking clergyman?" d'Artagnan mused; Porthos snorted. Years spent in Richelieu's presence would erode any man's illusions about the Lord's mortal servants.

Treville called them to order with a look. "I haven't been informed of anyone going missing recently." There was a manageable amount of Cardinals in France. "Regardless of who this prisoner is, if he's important enough for Vargas to hide away this will be worth looking into."

"There may be a way to identify the prisoner," Aramis said. "One of the guards at the chateau took something off him, a piece of jewellery. This guard was supposed to escort us to Corbie, but Gutiérrez caught him trying to sell it to a trader in one of the villages we passed."

"What happened to the guard?"

"Gutiérrez killed him. He had a message from the prisoner on him."

"I presume Gutiérrez destroyed it?"

Aramis nodded and Treville wondered whether he was contemplating the fate that awaited him if his partner ever realised that Aramis, too, was a traitor. 

"Tell me _you_ have the jewellery now? "

Aramis smiled. "I do." 

The sight of the golden cross that Aramis pulled out of his pocket made Treville's heart stop. 

_It couldn't be._

The cross looked like that which Richelieu had worn over his robes every day. Treville had to fight to keep his hands from shaking as he took it from Aramis. The size was right, the cut was exact, even its weight was familiar. 

"There's something etched into the back, Minister. Probably a message from our prisoner, as it doesn't exactly fit the style of the jewellery. Perhaps someone can identify it."

As he turned the cross over, Treville saw four rough letters scratched into the metal with a tool clearly not meant for gold work. _A-J-P-R_. Richelieu's initials. 

Treville grabbed the nearest chair. 

_This was impossible. Armand was dead._ Treville had sat at his deathbed, held his hand, and kissed him goodbye. Richelieu had been so weak from his sickness he had barely been able to talk. He had been in so much pain.

He could not have been in a Spanish prison for—

"Minister?" Porthos had stepped closer, as though preparing to catch Treville if the need arose. 

Carefully, Treville sat down. The musketeers formed a half-circle around him, but Treville paid them no attention. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the cross in his hands; its shape; its texture. 

He felt cold. 

"This prisoner; _when_ did Vargas take him?"

"I don't know."

Treville swallowed. "Could the prisoner have been taken about eight months ago?"

"Possibly."

"You have a suspicion?" Athos interrupted.

Treville hesitated. It was impossible. His senses had to be deceiving him. "This necklace belongs to Cardinal Richelieu."

D'Artagnan was the first to break the stunned silence that had fallen. "The Cardinal is dead."

"I know." Treville fought for composure. _I held his hand._ Richelieu's grip had been feeble, his skin cold. 

"Minister."

Treville took a deep breath. He felt sick. 

" _Treville._ "

He looked up at Athos.

"Are you certain this is Richelieu's? It's not particularly ornate; there may be hundreds like it."

Treville traced the outline of the cross in his hands, as he had done countless times before.

"Yes." He prayed it was not hope that spoke through him. He had no use for hope. 

"Could Richelieu have given it to someone else?"

"No. He was wearing it when—" Treville swallowed. "He was wearing it the night he disappeared."

"But he was sick," d'Artagnan interjected. "Vargas kidnapped a dying man?"

"Poison?" Athos suggested. "He may have been made to appear sick."

"Wouldn't be the first death the Spanish staged," Porthos said. "Makes you wonder who else they took."

_First de Foix. Now Richelieu._

"Aramis, you mentioned a message. Did you see it? "

Aramis shook his head. "I only met up with Gutiérrez after he got rid of it."

"I'm surprised he didn't throw the cross into the next stream," Athos said.

Treville closed his eyes in pain. _They would never have found it then. They would never have suspected that Richelieu could still be alive._ The thought stole his breath. _Richelieu could still be alive._

"It _is_ gold," Aramis replied. "That means something to _some_ of us." 

Treville stood. He couldn't listen to them talk any longer. He had never expected to feel this way again – this mixture of dread and hope that had first taken hold of him when Rochefort had revealed that de Foix was still alive, waiting to be rescued. 

De Foix had returned to Treville only to die again.

Treville pressed his eyes shut. They had taken de Foix from him. They had taken Richelieu. Something besides hope and dread stirred in Treville.

"Where is this chateau?"

"West of Arras," Aramis replied.

Crossing the distance to the door in long, determined strides, he had to pause for composure to stop himself from shouting at the clerk in the antechamber. 

"I want the most recent map you can find of Arras and the surrounding area."

He returned to the musketeers in the office without waiting for a reply. 

"How soon can you get to that chateau, Aramis?" Treville began to pace, fearing he might burst if he stopped, trying to banish the memory of de Foix' scars; the marks of torture.

Richelieu had been so frail when Treville saw him last. He must have been so vulnerable when they had taken him. When Treville had let them take him.

"I take it you intend a rescue mission?"

Hearing Athos speak, Treville realised that he had completely missed Aramis' reply. He needed to stop; sit; _listen_. But his body would not obey.

If there was a single chance that Richelieu was alive—

"Minister."

Treville walked over to the desk, gripping it so tightly his knuckles hurt. The pain helped him focus. 

"Do you propose we rescue Cardinal Richelieu? If he is indeed at the chateau?" 

"Yes." The musketeers shared a look between them. In his present condition Treville was unable to interpret it. His mind was stuck on the enormity of Aramis' revelations and what they implied. For Vargas to have Richelieu kidnapped from his own Palais, after having made him suffer for weeks, _while Treville stood and watched_ – someone must have betrayed the Cardinal. "This will have to stay a small operation," he said. "Vargas must have had someone working for him in the Palais Cardinal; perhaps even in the Palace. We _cannot_ risk the Spanish knowing that we are coming." 

To think that a few months ago Vargas had been in Paris; at their mercy. But _he_ , stupid Treville, had honoured their agreement and let Vargas go once Rochefort was dead. Louis had ordered the spymaster to relay the message to King Philip that Spain's meddling in French internal affairs would no longer be peacefully tolerated.

 _'Honour. There's no word in the language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience.'_ Richelieu would never have been so stupid. 

All that time Vargas had kept Richelieu prisoner; kept him from Treville. He had made Treville believe Richelieu was dead. There had been a _funeral_. Treville had stood in front of a false tomb and searched for a connection that hadn't been there. Because _Richelieu_ hadn't been there.

"Minister."

Treville took a deep breath. And another. Remembering where he was and who he was with, Treville reminded himself that he could not afford to let his mind run wild. 

Athos stepped forward. "Are we sure we want the Cardinal back?"

Treville stared. "Yes." _Of course_ he was sure. He felt sick as he saw the cold expressions on their faces.

Aramis glanced at him. "He knows— the Cardinal knows about the Dauphin."

Treville's blood froze. "How do you know that?"

"He said as much to me, after the Queen announced she was with child."

Richelieu had never said anything to _him_. If the Cardinal had known about Aramis and the Queen, he could have used that knowledge to protect himself against the musketeers; against the Queen's threats. He could even have used it to set Treville against his own regiment. 

Yet Richelieu had never done any of these things. He had promised the Queen that he had only ever had France's best interests at heart. Blackmail and spreading seditious rumours did not lie within these interests. 

Richelieu hadn't used the Queen's secrets against her, although doing so could have put an end to any opposition to his policies. He hadn't used Aramis' secrets to control one of the musketeers he had considered so reckless. He hadn't used these secrets to force Treville to revoke some of the musketeers' freedoms that had vexed him so. He had left the management of the regiment that he considered such a nuisance entirely to their former Captain.

Unbeknownst to Treville, Richelieu had kept all the promises he had made when Treville had finally taken him back after his failed attempt on the Queen's life. 

Richelieu had never brought up the failings of Aramis and the Queen during the short months that had remained to them after the failed assassination attempt; not even on his deathbed.

It appeared that the Cardinal had been both more secretive and more honest during that time than Treville had suspected or hoped. Now he was being held prisoner by a sadist while Treville and the musketeers argued about whether he was worth rescuing. 

Treville tasted bile in his mouth. "He never used this information."

"He didn't have the opportunity," Aramis countered. "He might, once he returns."

"Why would he? It would plunge the country into chaos. You heard what he told the Queen – he wants to protect France, not destroy it."

"And once the war is over? Do you trust him with the Queen's secret, Minister? We could be inviting a second Rochefort."

"No!" Richelieu was nothing like Rochefort. He was everything that Rochefort was not. Loyal to France. Principled. Understanding. And he needed Treville. 

He noticed that he had shouted only in the sudden silence that followed his outburst. 

Again and again Treville had told Richelieu – in anger – that one day he would regret having made enemies of the musketeers. But this was worse than he had imagined. The musketeers had no love for the Cardinal and never been given a reason to change their minds. Richelieu had attempted to kill the woman Aramis claimed to love, employed Athos' wife as an assassin and hatched a plan that could have cost the musketeer's life. He had despised the musketeers for the freedoms granted to their regiment that put them beyond his control. 

Richelieu hated not being in control. He had to hate wherever he was now – and had been for the past _eight months._

"Revealing the Dauphin's true parentage would mean to risk civil war, which Richelieu always fought to prevent." Even though Treville spoke more calmly, his heart was racing. The musketeers couldn't be asking him to abandon Richelieu to Spain. "It doesn't matter what he knows," Treville continued. "We can't leave him a prisoner."

"Exactly." Hearing Porthos agree, Treville started to breathe again. For a brief moment. "They took him prisoner for a reason," Porthos continued. "If they wanted ransom, they wouldn't be hiding the fact that he's alive. So they must be keeping him alive for information. Richelieu was First Minister for years. Think how much the Spanish could get out of him."

Treville preferred not to. 

"In all fairness, preventing the Spanish from taking information from him doesn't mean we need to bring him back," Athos replied. 

Treville's heart stopped as his mind supplied the words Athos had left out. There was no need to bring Richelieu back _alive._

When Rochefort had suggested that they kill de Foix should they be unable to extract him from his prison, the musketeers had offered to get rid of the Comte for Treville.

They made no such protest now. 

"You want to _kill_ him?"

"I'm not saying that we shouldn't attempt a rescue first," Athos began. "What I'm saying is that we should consider all options when it comes to the Cardinal." 

_No._ They couldn't ask this of him. 

"If that's what is needed to protect her Majesty and the heir to the throne," Aramis added. "If it is in the best interest of France, then, yes, I believe we would be safer without him."

Belgard. De Foix. A troop of musketeers. _What was another sacrifice in the name of duty?_

Treville did not repeat out loud what he thought Aramis _really_ hoped to protect. "It's in the best interest of France to bring him back!"

"He betrayed the Queen!" 

Treville sent Aramis a cold look. "We went over this! The Queen accepted his reasoning. If _she_ can pardon him, perhaps you should too."

As soon as the words left Treville's mouth his heart took a leap. _What if she hadn't forgiven him?_ What if the shock of the Cardinal finding out about her affair with Aramis so closely after she escaped death had driven her to write another letter to her brother?

_Someone must have betrayed the Cardinal._

It couldn't be true. Anne had to know that her child was safe; that Richelieu wouldn't throw away his life's work for petty revenge.

"If Richelieu used this knowledge against the Queen, he would endanger everything he has worked for."

"This is the _Cardinal_ we're talking about," Athos reasoned. "If we bring him back, we bring all his scheming."

"There is _always_ scheming at Court. You cannot tell me that you believe Paris is safer without the Cardinal. Have you already forgotten about Marie de Medici? Rochefort?" They had needed Vargas' testimony to remove him. The memory made Treville's blood boil. " _Trust_ me on this. Richelieu is more valuable to the King – to France –" _to me_ "– alive than dead. You may disagree with his methods, but you can't tell me that you believe the Cardinal is a _threat_ to France."

"Only to the Dauphin." Aramis was clearly disgusted by the thought.

"We could ask the _King_ what he would prefer. Or need I remind you that you are _his_ musketeers?"

"You know that the King's judgement will be clouded by his feelings."

"Unlike yours?" If any of the musketeers thought that Treville was guilty of the same crime, they didn't say it. What feelings could their former Captain possibly have for the hated Cardinal? 

Aramis threw up his hands. "The King doesn't know what happened!"

"What is there to know? The Cardinal would gain nothing by betraying the Queen, and you should thank Heaven for it," Treville said, his anger boiling. Richelieu might still be alive. Held captive. In danger. And yet Treville was forced to debate whether or not he was to be rescued or _killed_. "You should pray the Spanish don't make him tell them about the danger _you_ put their King's sister in."

Aramis gaped at him. "I—"

"Enough!" It hadn't taken long for Athos to refine his battlefield bellow. Aramis fell silent and Treville took a moment to breathe. He had let his anger – his fear – run away with him. The Minister for War should be able to control his feelings. Especially those he had – still – for the Cardinal. 

Treville resumed pacing to stop his limbs from trembling. As his anger began to dissipate, he was left feeling weak. What did he have left to convince the men if they would not listen, apart from begging? Treville could threaten them with dismissal and disgrace if they did not bring back the Cardinal alive. He could shame them; his _boys_. But even that wouldn't save Richelieu's life if the musketeers were determined to take it. Treville had no other words to make them understand. He could never tell them how much saving Richelieu would mean to _him_. 

As Treville looked at each of them he wondered when they had become strangers.

"Right now, Richelieu is in the hands of our enemies," Athos continued. "It should be our priority to come up with a plan to change that. Before we can make any decisions regarding the Cardinal we first need to get into that chateau." 

Aramis turned to face him. "When are we going to make this decision? When we find him in the chateau? When we head back for Paris? When he's started blackmailing all of us?"

"I will be the judge of that." All attention returned to Treville. 

Athos looked ready to strangle someone. "Once we get inside, Minister — once we've assessed the situation we will have to strike. We won't be able to report back to you and wait for a decision before we act."

"That's not what the Minister's saying," d'Artagnan realised. "Is it?"

Treville regarded them with a stern look. "I'm coming with you." 

"Out of the question," Athos said immediately. "It's too dangerous."

Treville felt his anger flare up again. "Don't patronise me! I've been a soldier for longer than all of you combined – I didn't forget how to fight when I put on this coat!"

"That is beside the point. You are not a soldier now. You are a Minister of the Crown. You can't go on a mission to infiltrate an enemy base. You could be killed, or worse, captured. What then? I know what would to happen to _us_." Athos looked at his men. "The Spanish garrotte captured spies. But what do you think Vargas is going to do to you, the French Minister for War, caught in enemy territory?"

At least he would be closer to Richelieu.

"I am coming with you." The last time Treville had sent them on a mission like this alone they had returned with a mortally wounded de Foix. This time they might not even bother to bring back the corpse.

Athos gaze cut have cut glass. "I am Captain of the King's Musketeers. The only orders I have to take are those made in the King's name. And I can't see his Minister for War needlessly endangering his life being in the King's interest."

"And yet you would embark on this mission without asking your King's wishes?"

Athos rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This is foolishness. The King _needs_ you."

 _Not as much as the Cardinal._ "Arras is less than a day's ride from Amiens. He won't even notice I'm gone."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. You can't risk your life like this."

"That's _my_ decision, Athos."

"No, it's not. I will not allow a Minister of the Crown to risk his life on a mission that is none of his business."

Treville returned Athos' look of steel with one of his own. "It _is_ my business."

Athos opened his mouth to say something but evidentially thought better of it. He turned to the others. "Leave us."

They hesitated, confusion writ large on their faces. 

"That was an order!" 

As they turned to leave, Aramis shook off the hand Porthos reached out for him. The door opened before they reached it, admitting a clerk carrying two rolled up maps. He fled immediately after dropping his delivery onto the desk, followed by the musketeers.

Athos waited a few moments after the door closed before he spoke again. "Why are you so intent on risking your life?"

Treville stayed silent, briefly averting his gaze. _Because Armand is in danger and I am the only one in this room who cares._

If he were still Captain no one would challenge his decision to go with them. This was another thing Rochefort had taken from him.

It was Athos' turn to sigh. "You ask me to allow you to accompany us on a mission into enemy territory, yet you are holding something back."

Treville briefly shut his eyes, trying to will the shame away. "It's not something you need to know."

"You've been a Captain for two decades, yet you behave like a fresh recruit jumping at the first impossible challenge that presents itself, and I don't need to know why? This is about the safety of my men too. You _know_ that. You would never have taken a civilian on a mission like this when you were Captain."

Treville bristled at being called a civilian. "I ask no special protection from you."

"And yet we would have to provide it. You are a _Minister_ now. Leave this to us."

"I _can't_."

"Why not? How is this different from any mission you sent us on before? How is this different from de Foix?" 

"I—" The words stuck on his tongue for but a moment, as Treville realised what he was going to say next. Something had ruptured. "You didn't do a very good job with de Foix, did you?"

Athos blinked. "You don't mean that." 

Treville turned away.

"You don't trust us?"

Treville felt like a villain for using his friend's death this way, but was he entirely wrong to doubt them? The musketeers had been able to get de Foix out of the prison. They had almost escaped. De Foix had almost made it. The mission had _almost_ been possible. If not for whatever had gone wrong.

"You said yourself, you would decide what to do with the Cardinal once you found him!" 

Athos looked taken aback for a moment. "I meant that we would have to assess whether it was at all possible to get him out, and consider our options if not."

"Does Aramis know that?"

"He knows his duty." Athos' reply sounded firm, but Treville caught his hesitation.

"He still loves her." Treville faltered. Wouldn't all their lives be much less complicated without love? 

"He left Paris –" _and the musketeers_ – "voluntarily," Athos objected.

"Do you not think Aramis would be back with you and Porthos and d'Artagnan in a moment if it didn't mean running the risk of facing his heartbreak?"

Athos shook his head. "If you don't trust us, give this mission to someone else." His voice was hollow.

It broke Treville's heart to realise that he would do just that if it were possible. Who else was there? This was exactly the kind of mission the musketeers had been created for. If the old Red Guard were still around – they would never have dreamed of killing Richelieu. But they had been disbanded, the men distributed to other regiments. 

How far had he fallen to consider the Red Guard a better choice than his own musketeers?

"This has to be done by stealth," Treville said. He shouldn't have to convince himself why he needed a mission to be run by musketeers. His own men. "Aramis has the best chances of getting into the chateau." Aramis, for whom Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan would do anything. Even kill. 

Aware of Athos' expectant gaze, Treville suppressed a shudder. Any other mission he would have trusted them with, but not this one. And he couldn't even tell them why. 

"So you only approve of us because you have no other choice? You really don't trust us?"

"I trust you with my _life_ , Athos."

"But not with the Cardinal's." Athos' eyes dulled. 

The respect of his men that Treville had known at Pinon. The sum of a life's worth. How quickly it all vanished.

"I'm sorry, Athos."

Treville remembered how proud d'Artagnan had been when he was accepted into the regiment, so shortly after losing his father and his home. He remembered finding Aramis in a Savoyard forest, surrounded by the bodies of twenty dead musketeers; how Aramis had eventually understood. He remembered how he had betrayed Porthos, and how Porthos had forgiven him.

How could Treville tell these men he didn't trust them?

He sank back into his seat.

"Athos – I'm sorry for the way I spoke." Treville attempted to keep his voice steady. "You're going to need these." He offered the Captain the maps lying on the desk. "We need to begin planning your mission."

Athos took the maps, looking as wary as he was surprised. "Are you still insistent on coming with us?"

Treville hesitated. "That, too, should be the King's decision," he said. 

"You think it's wise to tell him?"

Treville sighed. "He deserves to know. He loves the Cardinal." He didn't feel any better about using Louis' pain as a tool than he had about using de Foix' death. But if the King could convince them where his own words had failed— if the King begged them the way Treville was forbidden—

"And if we have to kill Richelieu?"

A sardonic smile tugged at Treville's lips. "You must promise you will only consider it under the direst circumstances."

  


* * *

  


They walked through the castle hallways together, all five of them. Although Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan did not demand to know in detail what the Captain and the Minister had discussed, Treville suspected they could sense the remnants of the tension between them. 

Yet, for now they were united.

_"Minister Treville is right," Athos had told the others, after he had recalled them." We can't decide a man's fate based on something he may or may not do in the future."_

_Aramis had shaken his head, until Athos had convinced him of how crucial he was in the mission; how much less risky their attempt at breaking into the chateau would be if Aramis could persuade Gutiérrez to take him there in advance, allowing him to scout the location._

_In the end, Aramis had sighed and trembled, but he had agreed to join them._

After hours of discussion and planning, they had gone in search of their King. They found him in the audience hall, beset by some of the city's most illustrious citizens.

"What is the matter, Treville?"

Treville forced himself to take a moment to compose himself before he spoke, casting a grim look at the assembled notables. The promise of action had worn his patience thin. "Urgent matters have come to light that I need to bring to your Majesty's attention." 

Catching his meaning, Louis dismissed the crowd at once, before accompanying Treville and the musketeers to a smaller, more private chamber.

"What is this news, Treville?"

Treville took a deep breath. "Perhaps it would be wise if you sat down, Your Majesty."

The King did not sit down. "What happened?"

"You remember the musketeers' rescue of General de Foix.?"

"I do. Tell me what this is about."

"This is about Cardinal Richelieu."

"The Cardinal?"

"One of our agents," Treville nodded at Aramis, "provided us with intelligence indicating that the Cardinal is still alive, held by the same people that organised de Foix' disappearance."

"Spain?" The King stared, his regal mask shattered. "The Cardinal is in Spain? _Alive_?"

Athos cleared his throat. "We believe him to be held in the Spanish Lowlands, not far from the border."

The King turned to Treville with tears in his eyes. "Please tell me this is true, Treville. I beg you, do not toy with me."

The notion that it might all be a cruel joke left Treville momentarily speechless. "Your Majesty, I would never dare." Richelieu was too important to both of them. The King was possibly the only man on Earth who shared a fraction of Treville's feelings on the matter; who wished to know the Cardinal safe.

"You're certain that he is alive?"

"We found this." Treville produced the cross from his pocket, willing his hands not to shake as he offered it to the King. It was a physical promise that Treville might see Richelieu again.

Louis took the cross from him carefully, as though it might bite if startled. As the King held the piece of jewellery in his hands, running his thumb across its outline, horror crept onto his face. 

"It looks exactly like Armand's." His voice shook. "How? How could Spain—?" He stared at his musketeers. "How could _you_ allow this?"

"Your Majesty, guarding the Cardinal was never their duty." And how Treville regretted it. 

Screwing his eyes shut, Louis finally sat down, the cross trembling in his hands. Treville envied him his tears. He had to avert his eyes.

"Where is he?" The King asked.

"We believe he is being held at a chateau near Arras."

Louis squared his shoulders. "Then we must march on Arras now."

"Your Majesty, is that wise?"

"They took my First Minister!"

"Your Majesty, I beg you to consider the effect an army would have on the Cardinal's captors. They could transfer him to a different location before our soldiers got near them." Treville swallowed. "Or they could kill him."

Louis slumped in his chair. "Then what am I to do? I want him back!"

Athos spoke up. "We have a proposal." 

Infected by Louis' grief, Treville left it to the musketeers to explain their plan of action to him. 

The first thing they had discussed was enabling Aramis to break out of Corbie's dungeons with Gutiérrez, staging it in such a way that the spy would trust Aramis enough to take him back to Vargas' base. They also had to make Aramis look like he had undergone an aggressive interrogation – both to convincingly explain his long absence from his prison cell, and ensuring Vargas would not recognise him if he should be at the chateau when Aramis was there. The shaggy beard he had grown in the months he had posed as a Spanish spy helped hide his features, but after a discussion they had agreed that a black eye would complete the fiction.

Porthos had argued that he wanted no one but himself to hurt his friend, but eventually Aramis and d'Artagnan had convinced him to let Athos do the job.

Once the musketeers finished talking, Treville watched in hope and fear as the King turned to Athos. "My faithful musketeers will return my First Minister to me."

His face a mask of stone, Athos nodded. 

"Your Majesty," Aramis spoke up. "If we fail to extract the Cardinal from the chateau, do we have your permission to prevent our enemy from gaining further advantage from his capture?"

Louis looked as confused as Treville had. The Minister could not hide the look of betrayal that flashed across his face. _Athos had promised_ —

"Kill Armand? Are you mad? I have ordered you to _rescue_ him, not murder him!"

"Your Majesty," Athos continued softly. "This step would only be taken if it became clear that we would be unable to leave the chateau with him. It may even be a kindness, depending on the Cardinal's condition."

Louis gasped. Treville stared at the floor. He was unable to stop thinking of de Foix; de Foix and how frail Richelieu had been on his deathbed. Perhaps he should have left the musketeers to plan on their own. Perhaps he should have returned to the archives and been grateful for any documents saved from the fire. Perhaps he should have retreated to his quarters and drunk himself into unconsciousness.

"You will do everything in your power to bring the Cardinal _home_." The King's voice trembled. "You will lay down your lives to free him before you consider taking his. Only if all else fails will I allow you to kill him. _Treville!_ "

Treville looked up, praying no emotion showed on his face. Louis was speaking through a veil of tears. 

"You are to leave for Amiens in the morning to arrange the provisioning of Corbie as we discussed. Athos and his men will accompany you." The King turned back his Captain. "The Minister will provide you with any means to achieve your task. Amiens is close to Arras. I want you to mount a rescue as soon as you arrive. Start planning now, Captain. If you fail me, you should consider yourself fortunate if you do not return from your mission at all." Louis closed his eyes briefly. "But if you return the Cardinal to me alive, know that you can do your King no greater service."

Athos bowed. "We will bring the Cardinal back – if he is indeed still alive."

Fresh tears sprang to the King's eyes and Treville shout Athos' a dark look. Richelieu was alive. He had to be.

"We have to consider all possibilities," Athos said as Louis started pacing. "Our evidence suggests that the Cardinal is Vargas' prisoner, but until we arrive at the chateau there is no way to know for sure."

Louis whirled around to confront him, his eyes flashing brightly. "I told you not to give me false hope!"

The herald of uncomfortable truths met his onslaught stone-faced. "Your Majesty—" 

"There is one way to find out for sure whether the Cardinal is dead," Porthos interrupted. "If it's really him in that tomb."

Louis' eyes grew round and Treville could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He couldn't mean—

"You want to open Armand's tomb?" The King stared at his musketeer. "Where's your respect? I won't have his resting place defiled that way." 

"But we're assuming he won't even be in there, so we wouldn't really be disturbing him."

Louis looked from Porthos to Treville who didn't know what to say. His earlier idea of drinking himself unconscious appeared very attractive at the moment. _Opening Armand's tomb._ He stroked the cross in his hands. They wouldn't find him in there. It wouldn't hurt him – and Treville would _know_.

"I will not allow someone else to rest in Armand's tomb," the King cried. "I won't stand for it," he said more softly, slumping into his chair. "Not for a day longer if there's a chance of it being true."

Treville swallowed. "If his Majesty were to give us written permission, we could ride back to Paris and have the—" _not the Cardinal; he wasn't dead_ "—the body be exhumed."

Louis looked up. "I order you and these musketeers to leave for Paris and handle the matter at your own discretion." 

"Tonight?" They wouldn't make it to Paris before nightfall even if they left now.

"Now," the King said, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't suffer this insult to my First Minister a moment longer." Treville saw him swallow his grief and knew exactly what that felt like. "If Richelieu is not there, I want you to have any other body removed and proceed to infiltrate the chateau immediately." 

Treville hesitated. "And if he's there?" 

"Return and tell me," the King said quietly.

"Yes, your Majesty." _It wouldn't happen._ They wouldn't find Richelieu in Paris. The musketeers would ride out and find him in the Spanish spymaster's dungeon. 

In what kind of world was that so much better?

Wiping his eyes, the King stood up, demanding paper and quill. "I have a warrant to sign!"

After the King dismissed them – claiming, with a voice laden with emotion, to need a moment to himself – the musketeers retreated from the chamber in silence. Treville followed them. He had decided that this was not an opportune moment to ask the King what he thought of his Minister's continued involvement in the proposed rescue mission. 

He ignored Athos as the Captain sent him a contemplative look, turning towards Aramis instead. 

"You won't regret this mission," he said. "The Cardinal will not harm the Queen or the Dauphin."

Aramis took a shuddering breath. "How can you promise that?" 

Treville looked down. _What hold could the Minister of War possibly have over the Great Cardinal?_ He sighed. _One last plea before the sacrifice._ "We need the Cardinal. That is why Queen Anne pardoned him. She would tell you the same. No one on the King's Council has his expertise. His experience in diplomacy and foreign policy can shorten this war."

"Will you agree to tell her?" Aramis asked, his eyes shining wetly in a weary face – one that reminded Treville of the snow-covered Savoyard clearing that haunted him.

"Well, first we have to make sure he isn't in his tomb," Athos interrupted.

Aramis ignored him. "Will you tell her?"

"The King has already given his orders and we must obey," he continued as Treville remained silent. "We're going to rescue the Cardinal, but she _deserves_ to know."

"Since we're going to Paris anyway," Athos said, "we could stop at the Louvre before we move on to Amiens."

Treville closed his eyes. It would mean more delay before they rode out to find Richelieu, but Aramis had a point. Treville didn't owe loyalty to just the King – _or Richelieu_. Warning the Queen was the least they could do for her now that the musketeers had received their orders from the King. She didn't possess the authority to stop their mission – Treville looked Aramis in the eyes – though perhaps she could influence its outcome.

"We'll go to her in the morning." Treville conceded. Depending on what they found in the cathedral, they might not have to tell her anything.

Nodding briefly, Aramis walked off, closely followed by his friends. This time, when Porthos reached out, Aramis allowed himself to be comforted.

Treville watched them for a moment, before retreating in the direction of his quarters to pack. As soon as he was alone, he took hold of the cross again, running his fingers over its smooth edges. Athos had said they couldn't be sure whether the cross had been sent by Richelieu – that there were likely to be others like it. 

Treville was sure there weren't. He _remembered_ this cross, and he knew there was only one choice he could ever make once they found Richelieu's tomb empty and the time came to send his men to the chateau.

As he bent to pick up his travelling cloak, Treville thought he felt the old wound from the assassin's pistol ball ache in his back. Of all the harm that Rochefort had caused, his shaken trust in the musketeers hurt the most.

  


* * *

  


1 As fantastical as it sounds, something like this actually happened. The Spanish invasion got frightfully close to Paris extremely fast by taking fortresses along the Somme – including Corbie – from seemingly out of nowhere, and then they blew it. They hung back in Corbie, parts of the army retreating back across the Somme, allowing Louis to crush the remaining troops with overwhelming force. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For eight months Treville had lived in a world in which Richelieu was dead. He had been forced to learn to live without him. Now he didn't know what would happen if he was returned to that world by what they found in Richelieu's tomb._

The King's seal allowed them to pass into the city unhindered despite the odd hour. Paris never slept, but the more unsavoury of her citizens were wise enough to stick to the shadows as the Minister for War and the four musketeers rode past. But although no one challenged them on the streets, it wasn't until the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon that they dismounted in front of the cathedral, despite how much Treville wanted their task to be over with. 

They had made a first stop at the morgue. The coroner that occasionally aided the musketeers in their investigations had given them the addresses of half a dozen strong men who feared no corpses and had helped him transport bodies throughout the years.

All of these men would be there when they opened the casket. All of them would see – _what_? His lover's remains?

Treville would have preferred to keep the affair as private as possible, but they could never hope to move the heavy lid of the marble sarcophagus on their own without risking damage. He would be damned if he ended up destroying Armand's final resting place should his hopes be disappointed.

Back in Corbie he had been convinced that Richelieu was alive and had sent him a message. Now that they had set out to find proof, at the head of this grotesque expedition, he was not so sure. Had Athos been right when he had argued that the cross might not be Richelieu's? Had Treville's memory deceived him?

The Musketeers would rescue whichever Frenchman it was that Vargas held captive. If they found Richelieu here, in his grave, perhaps they would do it with greater enthusiasm.

As he tied up his horse, Treville slipped his hand in his coat pocket to assure himself that the cross was still there. Its edges were cool and smooth, but touching it returned warmth to his fingertips in the cold night air.

For eight months Treville had lived in a world in which Richelieu was dead. He had been forced to learn to live without him. Now he didn't know what would happen if he was returned to that world by what they found in Richelieu's tomb.

If they did find him, it meant he wasn't in the hands of the man who had tortured Rochefort and de Foix. If he was dead, he was safe.

Treville turned to look at the men he had assembled.

Their second stop had been at the house of one of Richelieu's physicians. Dr. Melay was the most senior of Richelieu's former physicians they could reach – the Cardinal's chief physician having last been seen in Paris around the time of the funeral, after which he had apparently moved to Orleans with his family. Bearing in mind the intelligence Aramis had shared with him, Treville doubted the man was truly to be found there.

They needed someone who could identify Richelieu beyond a doubt by something other than his face in case the embalming process had gone wrong. Treville bit his cheek. He didn't know which he preferred; to see a pile of bones and rotten flesh, or a dried out, waxen face that had retained familiar features. Death's uglier faces were no stranger to Treville, but he hoped to be spared from having to see Richelieu wear one of them.

"Here comes d'Artagnan with the priest," Athos said as their by now sizable group approached the gates of the cathedral.

The sour-faced man arriving a step ahead of the young musketeer was hardly recognisable as a man of God out of his robes, but Treville remembered him as the priest who had watched him during his last visit to Richelieu's tomb.

"Monsieur Kévin," he greeted.

The priest frowned. "Minister Treville, what is this that it can't wait until the morning?"

"We need to open Cardinal Richelieu's tomb," Treville answered, thankful for half a lifetime spent at Court that effortlessly allowed him to keep a neutral voice even when proposing the desecration of his lover's grave. 

"You—what?" Kévin had trouble closing his mouth. "Whatever for?"

"We have reason to suspect that you buried the wrong man."

Kévin's face flushed. "This had better be a very good reason."

"Suffice it to say that we received a message from the Cardinal," Athos interrupted. "If I told you anything else, I should have to shoot you on the spot."

This doused Kévin's outrage. "Regardless," he said, brushing his coat in an attempt to compose himself. "I can't let you just break open his Eminence's tomb without observing the proper formalities." Now that his features had softened he looked no older than d'Artagnan.

"We're not going to _break_ anything." Athos nodded his head at the coroner's assistants. "We'll merely look inside."

"Well, we'll have to break open the coffin, but the sarcophagus will remain intact."

All eyes turned towards d'Artagnan who immediately shut up and took a step back. Porthos looked around nonchalantly, inadvertently drawing attention to the axe in his hands. 

The young priest blanched so violently that his complexion made his golden hair look dark. "Have— have the Cardinal's next of kin been informed? I can't let you go ahead without their permission."

Treville's expression darkened. "We'll have to do without them, as none of the Cardinal's relations are currently in Paris." None that anybody outside of a tribunal for blasphemy would recognise. 

Even death scorned them. 

"But—"

"The King orders it."

Kévin's shoulders fell in defeat as he examined the royal warrant Treville had produced.

"This is highly irregular," he said. "The Archbishop should deal with this."

"No." The new Archbishop of Paris presently resided at his brother's country home just outside of Chartres – half a day's ride away. "We have no time to waste. The King wants answers now."

"Besides," Porthos chimed in, "you people dig up the bodies of saints all the time."

Aramis shot his friend a half-amused, half reproachful look, and Kévin stared. "Have some respect. His Eminence's tomb is at the centre of our cathedral, it—" 

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll be careful. Now open up. You heard the Minister; the King wants answers and we don't have all day."

Kévin muttered something under his breath, but let them into the cathedral regardless.

"You don't know who you buried in there," Aramis added. "Might not even be a Catholic. You may have buried a heathen in your cathedral."

Even if the musketeer had meant to make the priest feel better about letting a hoard of strangers desecrate the tomb of the once most powerful man in France, all he achieved was to make Kévin grow even paler. Treville couldn't help but think that if Aramis continued, Kévin would provide a handsome replacement corpse if they found the tomb unoccupied.

As the men entered the cathedral, Treville hung back. He took a moment just to breathe, taking in the night air and the uncommon quiet Paris exhibited before dawn, perhaps an hour before those of her business people pretending to honesty awoke and started their day and an hour after her more openly dishonest citizens had gone to bed. Treville sighed. The stars above him disappeared as the world around him grew lighter. They had to try and be done before the first faithful and beggars appeared on the cathedral's doorstep.

Brushing his fingers over Richelieu's cross one final time, Treville stepped inside, waiting behind the men to take his turn to dab his fingers in Holy water and make the sign of the cross. It used to be an empty gesture Treville took part in to keep up appearances, but this time when he touched the tepid water he couldn't help but wish that a blessing passed onto him that meant that his hopes might be answered. 

Hope that Richelieu might be held in a Spanish fortress, in the hands of a torturer. _In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen._ It was a strange world.

They watched as Kévin flitted through the shadows to light some of the candles and lanterns, a darkly dressed figure bringing light.

"There is one more matter, Minister," the priest said as he returned to them to lead them deeper into the nave, carrying a lit candelabrum that lit his frown. "How long has it been since your last confession?"

As Treville heard the men shuffle their feet behind them, he almost bit his cheek again. "We don't have time for that," he said sharply.

"Is this really necessary, Monsieur l'Abbé?" Aramis interrupted. "There isn't exactly a protocol for this kind of thing."

The priest supressed a sigh and Treville shot Aramis a grateful look. 

Kévin looked them all up and down with the expression of a mother who had called in her offspring from play after Sunday mass only find they had stained their good suits. He began reciting a long string of Latin that Treville couldn't entirely follow but that ended with the familiar phrase _ego te absolve a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_ that absolved them of their sins.

"Amen." As Kévin finished rather more aggressively than Treville was used to from a confessor, he was beset by the feeling that everyone present had better find a new church for their communion. 

"You may now proceed to the Cardinal's tomb."

As Kévin led the way to the chancel, Treville could hear Porthos lean over to Aramis and whisper, "Was he allowed to do that?"

Kévin turned around, saying "I _know_ what I'm doing," in a tone universal to anyone experiencing high doubts about their current situation. 

A moment later, Treville stood in front of Richelieu's marble likeness again; a cold stone face, a look of rapture where a sarcastic smile should be. What did it truly guard? Richelieu's remains, or those of a stranger?

Was this why he felt so distant from Richelieu whenever he came to this place? Because the marble effigy lay atop a stranger's casket?

Treville touched the cross in his pocket and turned towards his men. "Do it," he said, his voice rough. There was no going back. If there was the slightest chance that someone other than Richelieu had been buried in the Cardinal's stead, Treville had to _know_.

"So we just open it?" Porthos asked. "Just like that?" The coroner's assistants seemed to share his reluctance as everyone's eyes turned on Kévin. The young priest looked from one man to the other before he realised what they expected him to do.

" _Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine_ ," he began, his eyes fixed on the sarcophagus. " _Et lux perpetua luceat eis_."

Treville recognised the Latin as the opening to a requiem mass. He had heard the same words spoken for Richelieu before.

As the priest continued his prayers, the musketeers and their guests set to work, trying to gain a secure hold on the smooth, heavy stone plate. 

" _Absolve, Domine, animas omnium fidelium defunctorum ab omni vinculo delictorum_ —"

"I always imagined myself nailing down the lid," Porthos grunted as he heaved. "Not lifting it."

Finally, the marble moved. Truth would be found below it, for ill or for worse.

"— _et gratia tua illis succurente mereantur evadere iudicium ultionis, et lucis aeternae beatitudine perfrui_."

The men didn't move the lid far enough for it to drop into the casket or the floor below, just creating enough room to reach the coffin with an axe. 

Taking a torch from d'Artagnan, Treville dared to cast a look down. The coffin was still intact, looking the same as when he had seen it last, resting on a bier beneath a bone-white crucifix at Richelieu's funeral mass.

It might all have been a lie. All the prayers said and hymns sung for the wrong man. All these tears of farewell shed for a man holding out for a rescue in a Spanish dungeon. Screwing his eyes shut, Treville stepped back to let Porthos do his work.

" _Dies irae, dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla, teste David cum Sibylla,_ " Kévin continued. His voice sounded slightly shakier as Porthos lifted the axe.

Treville held his breath. Above them, the marble figure continued to look for heaven's light, oblivious to what happened to the casket it had guarded for so many months.

The wood splintered under Porthos' blows. A faint, flowery smell coloured the air as the embalmed body inside the casket was exposed. Porthos dropped the axe and asked for a torch. 

Treville felt light-headed as he stepped closer to the sarcophagus again, as though he had forgotten how to breathe. He heard Porthos inhale sharply. Athos followed next. 

" _Quantus tremor est futurus, quando judex est venturus, cuncta stricte discussurus._ "

 _Quando judex est venturus_. When the judge comes. 

What verdict would he render?

Treville bent his head over the edge of the sarcophagus and stared into the torch-lit darkness, hoping to see and not to see, needing and not wanting to know. – just as Athos started to speak.

"This either isn't the Cardinal, or we're witness to a truly miraculous transformation."

At the musketeer's side Kévin had stopped his recital and stepped up to the coffin to take a look of his own. As the young priest looked into the coffin his lips moved in silent prayer.

"Abbé?"

"Shit," he said. 

Treville exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Not even death could have distorted Richelieu's features to look like that. Even embalmed the corpse's face was fuller than Richelieu's had ever been in life, and the hair on its skull was darker than Richelieu's wild brown curls had been in his youth.

This wasn't Richelieu's body. Richelieu wasn't here. He never had been. Richelieu was being held in a chateau just across the border to the Spanish lowlands, subjected to the Lord-knew-what. But he was alive – and he had sent Treville a message.

As he stepped back from the sarcophagus, relinquishing his place to any curious coroner's assistants, Treville almost stumbled over his own feet. Porthos caught him.

"Careful, Minister."

Treville smiled at him gratefully, unable to hide his relief. Richelieu was alive. _And Treville would find him._

  


* * *

  
They left the coroner's men with coin for their trouble, the doctor with an apology, and the priest with an embalmed corpse without a grave. While the musketeers had guarded the cathedral Treville had fetched more men from the city watch, having them bring ropes and tackles to safely lift the lid off the marble sarcophagus entirely in order for the shattered casket to be removed. The cathedral would stay closed to visitors until the corpse of the Spaniards' unknown victim found a new resting place.

All of this would have to take place without Treville. As soon as their reinforcements had been briefed on the situation, he and the musketeers had mounted up and ridden to the Louvre. They had to catch the Queen before she left for Corbie as Treville had promised or risk further delay. 

Now that he knew for certain that Richelieu wasn't in his tomb, that something else had happened to him, Treville couldn't bear the thought of wasting any more time than necessary before leaving for Amiens. 

Yes, Aramis had to break Gutiérrez out of jail and infiltrate the chateau before they could ride to Arras. Yes, it would be days before they heard from him again. But that didn't mean Treville had to spent these days in Paris, dealing with the complications of a stranger's corpse and Richelieu's tomb, regardless of whether it was empty or not. 

So long as they didn't know what exactly had happened to him, Treville didn't wish to think about Richelieu in relation to graves. Such thoughts carried the implication that Richelieu's tomb might not stay empty for long. 

According to Aramis the cross had been sent on its way more than two months ago. Since then Richelieu had been waiting for someone to find him. For months, Treville had failed him.

A lot could happen in two months. Vargas might have killed the sender, or he might have just succumbed.

Even if it was true that Richelieu was still alive – alive did not mean safe.

Treville shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts as they were admitted into the Queen's quarters, but it didn't help his stinging eyes. He hung back behind the musketeers to wipe them with the back of his hands.

Only a few days now and then he'd _know_.

As he stepped into the Queen's presence, he prayed that any signs of distress on his face would be interpreted as the results of a sleepless night.

They found Queen Anne sitting with a pair of her ladies in her drawing room, giving instructions to the servants who were carrying away the luggage she was about to take to Corbie where an uncertain arrival awaited her. Louis hadn't mentioned her once during the siege, and Treville wondered how long it would take before the King could bring himself to greet her once she arrived in Corbie.

One could be tempted to excuse the King's neglect with the dire situation France faced with an enemy force in occupation so close to her capital and the work that reclaiming the city left for Louis. But everyone at Court knew about the rift that had opened between King and Queen shortly after her pregnancy had been announced. It hadn't closed after war had been declared against her homeland. 

Despite her unenviable position, a benevolent smile spread across her face as she recognised her visitors, brightening the room like sunlight. 

Under the circumstances, Treville couldn't bring himself to return it. 

He was glad he hadn't had a chance to close his eyes during the night, as he suspected his dreams would have been filled with visions of all the ways in which Spanish torturers could hurt a man. It was hard enough to escape these thoughts as he was awake. 

He reached for the cross in his pocket, telling himself that they would find Richelieu alive and well. _They had to_. 

Upon noticing his serious expression, Anne immediately dismissed her ladies and servants.

"What is it, Minister?" Standing up, she shot each of the musketeers an enquiring look, but when her gaze turned on Aramis she quickly looked back at Treville rather than allowing her eyes to linger. _A sadly wise woman._

It was fortunate that she had sent out her ladies, for Aramis had greater trouble not staring. 

Confronted with this display, Treville hardly knew how to break the news to her. He settled for the terse truth. "Through Aramis' efforts in Vargas' spy network we have learned that Cardinal Richelieu is alive and held captive in the Spanish lowlands."

The Queen blinked. Only this and the slight parting of her lips hinted at her surprise. Her royal composure had greatly improved in the months since Rochefort's death. There were no more darting looks that might betray her thoughts, no more raised voices.

Treville felt oddly cheated. Had he expected to see a hint of guilt in her reaction? Even hoped for it? All he knew for sure was that he felt no less uncomfortable than the first time he'd concluded that someone had betrayed Richelieu.

Was the Queen – kind-hearted but strong-minded; empathetic but calculating – capable of such deceit?

"The Cardinal?" Her face remained calm, but her voice wavered. Snapping open her fan, Anne walked to the other side of the room. "You're certain he's alive?"

Treville's fingers tightened around the cross in his pocket. "The King bade us to have his body exhumed earlier this morning. It wasn't in his tomb."

Anne paled. "His tomb was empty?"

"Someone was in there," d'Artagnan explained, "but it wasn't the Cardinal."

The Queen fanned her face quickly. She was white as chalk. "How ghastly."

"The King has already ordered his rescue," Athos said. "My men and I will leave immediately."

The Queen nodded, staring out of the window – completely in line with the reaction of a woman who had been tutored in stoicism to learning that her would-be murderer might be about to return. 

To assume that she had anything to do with Richelieu's abduction was preposterous – treasonous. Treville was ashamed to think it, but he couldn't ignore that she had committed treason before; in a moment of passion and fear that, of all people, _Richelieu_ had enabled.

The Queen turned back to face them. "Why are you telling me this?"

Aramis stirred. "We felt you should know."

The Queen turned away again, clicking her fan. "I can't deny, when I was told he was dead a part of me felt relieved."

Treville closed his eyes. He couldn't begrudge her for not mourning the Cardinal. Part of him was surprised that after all these years of listening to courtiers and musketeers expressing their disdain for Richelieu, hearing these opinions out loud still touched him. 

"Though I did not grieve for him, I grieved for my husband's loss," the Queen continued. "Despite our disagreements, despite his methods, the Cardinal's aim has ever been a stronger monarchy and a stronger state. His expertise would help to shorten this war."

It was Aramis turn to wince as the Queen told them exactly what Treville had predicted she would. 

"You say he's being held in the Spanish lowlands? By Spanish agents?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

She frowned and Treville wondered whether she could tell what that meant for Richelieu – if she knew what happened to political prisoners in her homeland. 

"Then you must save him for my husband's sake."

"Are you sure this is what you want, your Majesty?" Aramis asked, his voice hitching, and Treville held his breath.

Although she frowned as if she meant to reprimand Aramis for questioning her royal wisdom, the Queen showed greater composure than him in her answer. "If he betrays me like Rochefort did, I know my loyal musketeers will defend me again." 

She looked at the musketeers fondly, and Athos bowed diplomatically in lieu of a verbal reply. They were still the King's Musketeers, and it was the King they had to obey above all. If they were ever called to defend the Queen against the King, Treville didn't know whether the regiment would survive under its present leadership. It appeared to him as though every day revealed to him more people he had failed in some way. 

When he had suggested Athos as his replacement, he hadn't thought such a situation possible, but now – If they found Richelieu; if they brought him home alive; if the King's wishes for his presumed-dead advisor were ever at odds with his Queen's safety again – Treville wasn't sure what would happen. The King's heartfelt plea to the musketeers to save Richelieu was as fresh in Treville's mind as his enduring coldness towards the Queen who now supported him.

"I believe this is the right thing to do," she said. "We're at war with Spain. Our enemies can't be allowed to use his knowledge against us."

Treville had to bite his cheek to stop himself from recalling his fears, but wasn't entirely successful. De Foix' wounds had given him a graphic idea of how the Spanish tried to convince their prisoners to share information. He looked away, hoping no one caught his pained expression. 

The Queen distracted him from his contemplations. "I must support what is best for my son," she said, "and that's the action that brings the greatest stability to this country."

Her son. _The King's son_. That was the only possible way to think of the Dauphin, because anything else would mean Treville was lying to his King, to the council, to the people. It meant violating the laws of God and men by concealing the usurpation of the rightful King's bloodline. In effect, it meant he was breaking every vow he had ever taken. 

To accept that the Dauphin was not the King's son and act according to his vows would lead to bloodshed.

Surely, not even the Queen could be certain Aramis was the child's father? Surely she would have slept with her husband shortly after returning from the convent to avoid endangering herself and the Royal line? Surely, the King was as likely to be the child's father as Aramis, as the boy didn't yet show any features that would have made his parentage obvious?

If Aramis was right about the Dauphin, then Treville prayed the child never grew up to look like him, and he couldn't help but wonder whether the Queen prayed the same. After the rumours Rochefort had sown, and taking into account Anne's apparent inability to make allies at Court, _someone_ was bound to use even the slightest resemblance to the musketeer against her. On top of that, the King appeared to be distancing himself from her with every day, almost as though he _knew_ that his heir wasn't his son. As though he realised that Anne had _not_ come to him after her return to try and cover up her one night of passion with Aramis in order to save her life.

"A year ago, perhaps, I would have seen things differently," the Queen interrupted his thoughts yet again. "But France has become a more dangerous place in the Cardinal's absence, and not just for me and my son." Faint, ghost-like grief flashed across her face as Treville looked up. "For anyone." She caught his gaze. "This war isn't going to be over within a year. The council isn't as effective as it should be, and I have to think of my son's future." She paused. "Compared to the stability and strength the Cardinal's return will bring to my husband's rule, the risk to my own life appears negligible."

Aramis had yet to be convinced. "What about the risk to the Dauphin?"

Treville couldn't help searching her face for a hint of her true emotions, whatever they were, but the Queen didn't bat an eye. 

"The Cardinal needs my son. A kingdom without an heir is vulnerable. Particularly when the King is expected to go to war."

"So you are not opposed to the Cardinal's return, your Majesty?" Athos asked.

Her lips tightened. Treville had no idea what it meant and averted his eyes in shame. "I won't oppose my husband in this. Please, leave now." She cast a look around the half-furnished chamber. "You have work to do and so have I."

Treville and the musketeers bowed deeply, but just they were leaving the Queen spoke up again.

"Aramis."

Treville froze. Was she calling him back? Queen Anne couldn't prevent them from searching for Richelieu – the musketeers had to obey the King and ride out – but she could influence what the musketeers did with Richelieu when they found him. She couldn't stop them, but could she write a letter to warn Richelieu's kidnappers? Was she prepared to sacrifice the musketeers if she believed the threat was great enough? Was she prepared to sacrifice Aramis?

The Queen hesitated, and Treville was certain she would.

"Good luck," she said eventually, a quick smile playing about her lips, making Treville feel even worse than he had before. Perhaps he shouldn't presume everyone was so quick to sacrifice the people dear to them in the name duty.

As they walked away from the Queen's quarters Treville hurried his steps to put some distance between himself and the musketeers. They didn't need to see his tears.  


* * *

  
Treville elected to ride to Amiens on horseback, leaving the carriage to his secretaries. It allowed him to enter the city like a military commander rather than a minister. Favre had agreed that this would make it clear to anyone watching that the King hadn't sent an ordinary envoy – but most of all, concentrating on staying on his horse after the harrowing night he'd had stopped Treville from focussing on his anxiety about Richelieu. He couldn't allow himself to let his emotions – fear or hope – run out of control. While his musketeers prepared to infiltrate an enemy fortress, Treville would have to focus his energies on grain.

As soon as they arrived in Amiens the city's Governor introduced them the commander of city's famed fortress, who didn't look too happy at the prospect of parting with some of his soldiers, and a long line of titled landowners Treville would have to haggle with to secure supplies for Corbie.

At the end of the day Treville entertained the faint hope that he was too exhausted to dream.

He was wrong.

That night, when Treville finally succumbed to sleep, he dreamt of a prison cell beckoning him to enter although he didn't want to, the door having opened before him of its own accord. At the centre of the cell, the only speck of colour in this dream, a man dressed in cardinal red cowered, emaciated and chained. 

Just as he couldn't stop himself from entering the cell Treville couldn't prevent himself from walking towards him, a familiar name on his lips. Sinking to his knees, Treville gently touched the man's bony shoulder. 

Richelieu looked up at him out of the face of an embalmed corpse, a silent accusation in his dried-out eyes. 

_Where were you?_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Whatever you hope to accomplish by accompanying us, I hope it's worth your life and the displeasure of your King."_
> 
>  
> 
> _Treville had never been so certain of anything._

After two days the meetings with the Governor and traders of Amiens all flowed into one. Despite his best efforts Treville found that talks of grain and livestock were a poor distraction from the matters that truly occupied his thoughts. To think that mere days ago he had been happy at the prospect of coming here to escape the paperwork at Corbie.

He had to force himself to listen to Governor Lapierre explain the logistics involved in moving so many provisions. 

"Not many men are willing to risk transporting such a great amount of goods over land in wartime, Minister," Lapierre said.

 _I'm wasting my time_ , Treville thought. _Time that Richelieu spent at the mercy of Vargas._

"The collateral for each delivery will be sizeable."

Richelieu would have had colourful words for traders who refused to send their wares to a starving city only a few hours away without a King's ransom in collateral. Treville could hear him in his head, his voice dripping with sarcasm. _"I am touched by your generosity."_

"Monsieur Grantaire's offer suits his Majesty's needs best," Lapierre continued, somewhere in the distance. "Transporting the goods by river will be faster and safer." 

_Richelieu would have made a deal by now._ That was why Richelieu had been the politician and Treville had been the simple soldier. _'I'm quite familiar with the roles we play.'_

"Grantaire has often worked with the lighter men operating along the Somme before." 

_Richelieu would have bought the shipping company._

"There is of course the question of compensation, Minister."

"Compensation?"

Treville was failing his King, but not as badly as he was failing Richelieu. _Corbie, the King's army – what did any of it matter, as long as Richelieu was in the hands of Madrid's spymaster?_

"During war-time the skippers' fees are high."

The Governor stopped to look at him expectantly and Treville had to suppress the urge to ask him to repeat his words. "He needs a loan to deliver our grain?" His inattention could cost the Crown dearly – in livres and in lives.

_Richelieu could die while they wasted their time talking about grain._

"I thought we had agreed the Crown would cover _any_ expenses?"

Treville shook his head, causing Lapierre to give him an odd look. "Of course, Governor." But _had_ they? _'Trust your instincts, Captain.'_ "And how high is the fee you agreed on with Grantaire to promote this deal?" 

"Minister!" Lapierre looked taken aback.

_He knew I wasn't listening._

"Don't tell Grantaire anything. His grain will keep for another day. I want to see—" Treville struggled to remember the other trader's name – "I want to meet Monsieur Chambon tomorrow." 

"Chapin, Minister."

Treville frowned. 

As soon as the Governor released him, Treville retreated to his temporary office. His inability to concentrate even on simple tasks was not only inconvenient; it was dangerous. Corbie relied on the success of his negotiations in Amiens, and war had made the region's traders no less greedy or devious. Treville could requisition what the King needed if all else failed, but at a time that Louis had to rely on the support of all of his subjects – particularly the rich and powerful – he had to be seen to be fair.

There was nothing Treville could do to speed events along, neither in Amiens nor across the border. There would be no riding off to a dashing rescue. Aramis had expected it would be at least three days before he could contact them. 

Until then, Richelieu's fate would remain uncertain. All Treville could do was try to focus on procuring provisions and soldiers for Corbie. Unfortunately, his work did nothing to silence the parts of his mind that screamed out at his forced idleness. Every dignitary he talked to reminded him of how much more efficiently Richelieu would have dealt with them. Every soldier he inspected reminded him of the army he wanted to place between Richelieu and Vargas. 

He had seen what the spymaster could do to his victims.

Treville shook his head. Perhaps they would find Richelieu little worse for wear, ready to escape with the musketeers, unchanged by the months of confinement. A part of him knew that it was dangerous to hope. Treville had learned that by now – after de Foix. But the alternative to hoping was to be haunted by the possibility of the musketeers finding nothing but a corpse. The alternative was to remember the ways de Foix had been hurt, and how it felt to bury him a second time. 

_The Cardinal had been there for eight months, locked up, defenceless against any torture Vargas might inflict._

Treville took a deep breath, trying to fight the images that had kept him from rest for the past few days. In his nightmares he saw the musketeers fail a hundred times, ending in prison cells of their own. He saw Richelieu too injured in body or mind to leave with them. He saw his men, his _boys_ , turning their blades on the man they came to rescue.

Treville shuddered as he stepped into his office, walking straight into his chief secretary. 

"Minister; Captain Athos is here to talk to you. He says it's urgent."

Treville was left momentarily breathless, as he looked past Favre to see Athos standing in front of his desk. 

The only thing that had prevented Treville from abandoning his duties, taking a horse and finding the chateau on his own, was being able to keep an eye on the musketeers' progress. Upon their arrival Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had immediately taken off to prepare their mission, Aramis having returned to his prison cell in Corbie. Treville hadn't seen much of them since – both because he had been busy with his own work, and to avoid shaking their trust in him further. There would be enough of _that_ later. 

The last time Treville had checked on the musketeers they had been pouring over maps of the Artois to find the least guarded route to the chateau. That Athos was calling on him now could only mean news. Treville prayed it was good. 

Treville sat down behind his desk, and allowed himself to hope.

"We received word from Aramis," the Captain explained. 

Treville's heart beat faster. "Already? Does he say anything about the prisoner? Has he confirmed his identity?"

Athos shook his head. "No. He hasn't been able to get near him, yet, but confirms that some of the guards refer to the prisoner as a Cardinal."

Treville knew his disappointment must have shown on his face, but he didn't care. 

"He writes he will have all the information we need about the chateau's defences when we meet him," Athos continued.

"He proposes a meeting?"

"Near a mill," Athos confirmed, "about an hour's ride from the chateau. He writes that Vargas is planning a trip to take care of business in Lille for a few days. He'll be leaving tomorrow, so that would be an opportune moment to strike."

According to their intelligence, Vargas' usual escort made up half the men guarding the chateau. They could not have hoped for a better chance. 

"He also writes that Gutiérrez has finally been sent to Amiens."

"Give a description of Gutiérrez to the Governor as soon as possible."

"Aramis expects to have to follow him here soon." 

Treville took a moment to breathe in and curb his excitement. It did not work entirely. "So it's now or never?"

Athos nodded.

"And you're sure the note is from Aramis?"

"He used the code we agreed on."

"Then we should prepare ourselves for a long ride."

Athos frowned. " _We_ , Minister?"

Treville kept his face neutral. "The King asked me to accompany you."

"The King?"

"I spoke to him again the evening before we left for Paris. Vargas may be keeping sensitive documents at the chateau that his Majesty wants me to have a look at."

"And you can't leave that to us—"

"You wouldn't know what to look for."

Athos' scepticism was palpable.

Treville _had_ briefly returned to Louis that evening to ask what the King thought of his continued involvement in the mission, and he _had_ brought up Spanish state secrets that Vargas could be hiding, but Louis' words had been less encouraging.

_'I can't lose you both, Treville.'_

Athos frowned. "That is curious, because I saw his Majesty right before we left and he mentioned nothing of it. Rather, he was very concerned that I understood I was accountable for _your_ safety. As though he had reason to believe you would be in danger."

"Of course. He asked me to accompany you into enemy territory." Treville met Athos' gaze without flinching. "Are you going to ride back to Corbie to question him?" 

They both knew it would mean missing their rendezvous with Aramis. 

"No." Athos pressed his lips into a thin line. "Obviously, you know what you're doing." After a moment of hesitation Athos leaned across the desk. "Stay here. What happened to the Cardinal was not your fault. What happened to de Foix was not your fault. You were never responsible for their safety. France needs you to win this war."

Treville closed his eyes and shook his head. He could stay in Amiens and take whatever the future brought. He could sacrifice Richelieu as he had so many others. 

_Belgard._

_Marsac._

_De Foix._

Accompanying the musketeers would be nothing but selfish. One man was not worth putting their war effort at risk. Surely, Richelieu would curse the Minister for War for a fool if he abandoned the King to risk his life on a rescue mission.

 _Yet—_ it had been eight months since Richelieu had been taken. Eight months of imprisonment, loneliness, _torture_.

The musketeers had been too late to save de Foix. Even if they did their utmost; if the same fate awaited Richelieu, Treville would not abandon him again. He had not been able to stay with him when they had thought the Cardinal was dying. If they could not save Richelieu, at least Treville would be able to see his face; hear his voice one last time. Perhaps he could tell Richelieu that he was loved. 

"It is the King's wish," Treville said, finally. As much as he regretted having to lie to his men, he knew he would regret missing a chance to see Richelieu again more.

Athos slammed his fist down. "You are not prepared for this," he shouted. "Regardless of what the King says, I _can't_ take you with us unless—"

"I have clothes and a horse prepared," Treville replied calmly. As part of their preparations, the musketeers had acquired simple civilian clothing and requisitioned less conspicuous mounts. A group of armed men on uniformly dark horses could easily be taken for deserters.

Athos glared, but controlled himself. "We ride at dawn." He paused, and caught Treville's eyes. "Whatever you hope to accomplish by accompanying us, I hope it's worth your life and the displeasure of your King."

Treville had never been so certain of anything.

  


* * *

  


They made their final approach after nightfall, leaving their horses with the guide that had led them safely across the border. 

The ride had been easy compared to the torture of waiting. Waiting for patrols to pass by on the road. Waiting for Aramis at the mill. Waiting for night to come. Waiting for sleep to come as they napped in shifts, trying to find rest until the sky was dark enough to cover their approach. Waiting for the right moment to slip into the shadowed blind-spot beneath the chateau's guard tower. _Waiting_ , while every moment Richelieu spent in a Spanish dungeon could be his last.

As they pressed against the outer wall of the chateau, Treville looked at his musketeers. They were counting on his experience to decide when to move and when to stand still – they trusted him to keep focused and patient in order to keep them safe. It was oddly calming. Their presence allowed Treville to pretend this was an ordinary mission. He was not a Minister for War, and Richelieu was waiting for him in Paris; safe, and well, and frustratingly obstructive.

The low, melancholy hoot of an owl was their signal to go; they began to climb the steep wall of the chateau, taking care to maintain complete silence.

Treville noted with some pride that he was barely out of breath by the time he reached the top of the wall. Of course, if this place had been conceived as a fortress instead of a summer residence – intended for defence rather than hunting parties and feeding its owner's ego – things might have been different. 

After retrieving their ropes and hooks, the musketeers made their way down the nearby steps into the garden. As Aramis had promised, there were no guards in sight. Keeping to the shadows of walls and hedges, they headed to the main building's rear entrance. They relied on the moonlight to keep from stumbling, as they could not risk lighting their lantern. 

Hiding in a pavilion close to their destination, they waited for Aramis who joined them moments later. 

"The guards heard and saw nothing," Aramis said. "No one at the chateau suspects you're here. We're safe for now." He risked a quick look out of the pavilion. "The patrol will pass by shortly – we should hurry."

Aramis took them through the servants' entrance into the main building. As the household was asleep the chateau's hallways were plunged into darkness. As soon as they were inside and the door closed, d'Artagnan lit their lantern, ready to cover it at the first suspicious sound. 

"They keep the prisoner in the cellar," Aramis whispered as they rounded a corner, leaving the servants' quarters behind them. "There is a guard at the stairs and—" he stopped.

Before them stood a servant girl holding a candle. Smoke curled in the air above it, as though the candle had just been snuffed. 

Treville could see Porthos tensing, preparing to pounce. 

"Good evening. How fortunate that we stumbled across you." Even speaking Spanish, Aramis' voice dripped with charm. "My colleagues have just arrived at the chateau and could use a drink." 

"I can distract the guard for you," the girl replied in French. 

The musketeers froze.

"The guard at the foot of the stairs leading up from the dungeon? I sometimes bring him extra food." A tremor crept into her voice. "You _are_ here for his Eminence, aren't you?"

"Yes," Treville whispered. 

The girl's eyes widened. "Thank the Lord! Did you receive his messages?"

Treville pulled Richelieu's necklace out of his collar. He had replaced the broken chain with a simple leather strap. "Yes," he said again. He nearly missed Athos giving him a strange look. 

"Did he tell you his name?"

The girl stared, as if it hadn't occurred to her that Cardinals had names. "No," she said.

Treville tried not to be disheartened. He couldn't imagine how he would react if they found anyone but Richelieu in the dungeon. He didn't dare ask her what the prisoner looked like. There was no sense in stretching his hopes any further. Besides, Richelieu might not look as Treville remembered him.

"You're certain they took the Cardinal to the cellar?" 

The girl nodded. "They had him in the tower for a while, but they put him back down there a few weeks ago." She hesitated, clearly afraid. "I'm not allowed to go down there, but I hear things. I think you should hurry."

A chill crawled up Treville's spine.

_It had been eight months._

Treville had to force himself to remain patient as the girl left. Within moments, the sound of heavy boots could be heard on the stairs; ascending, then heading in the direction of the kitchens. As soon as the sound of footsteps had faded the musketeers moved. According to Aramis – and now confirmed by the girl – there were no other guards in their path. D'Artagnan uncovered the lantern, and they made their way down the stairs, only to find a narrow hallway, lined by two doors and a burning lantern at each side. At the other end a few steps led to a passageway shrouded in darkness. 

Richelieu could be somewhere in this gloom.

"Shouldn't you be upstairs?" Only a lifetime of spent on battlefields of war and politics stopped Treville from jumping as Athos whispered to him. 

"You could search for Vargas' papers and leave the cellar to us." 

Treville sent him a _look._ As Athos had not brought up the question of Treville's involvement again during their ride, he had hoped the matter had been laid to rest. 

"There's no telling how long the servant girl will be able to distract the guard," he said. "We should concentrate on our main objective and leave as soon as possible."

"Fine with me." Athos shrugged.

The first doors on either side were locked. Sliding open the hatches and using the lantern to investigate revealed nothing but empty darkness. The second door on the left contained nothing but wine barrels. It's counterpart on the right had no hatch, but wasn't locked. Once they entered, Treville wished it had been. 

The musketeers fell quiet. Even Aramis looked slightly sick, as the lantern's glow reflected off a hundred instruments to inflict pain. 

They were all laid out orderly on shelves and benches. On one shelf Treville saw restraints of leather and chain. Another held an array of flaying knives. A metal pear and a heretic's fork lay next to pliers and shears. On a bench Treville saw an iron wedge and leg casts; metal plates and screws. 

Even had Treville not seen any of these things before, he would instantly have known what they were – what they were used for. He knew the sight of them would stay with him. _Which of them had Richelieu suffered?_

A large, sturdy table stood in the middle of the room. Metal rings were bolted to its head and foot. Its surface bore fine grooves where human nails had scratched it, and discolorations where blood had been soaked up by the wood.

Treville pushed past Aramis and Porthos in his hurry to get out.

"Minister?"

Treville did not reply. If he opened his mouth, he would shout; shout for Armand. They had taken him to that room. He knew it. The servant girl's tears had only confirmed his nightmares.

They had taken him here, while Treville and his musketeers had sat and argued whether Richelieu should be rescued at all.

"Minister?"

Treville closed his eyes briefly. Whatever had been done to Richelieu, it would end now, one way or the other. "We need to keep going."

He had to pace his steps to avoid overtaking d'Artagnan with the lantern as they took the passageway into even greater darkness; up the steps at the end of the hallway and down again, into another corridor. It was lit by only a single torch, which barely illuminated the outline of two doors in the opposite wall. Athos slid open one of the hatches, and didn't even ask d'Artagnan to lift the lantern before he declared, "this one!"

Crouching down, Porthos unwrapped a set of lock picks. Even as he worked on the lock there was no sound from the other side of the door. Treville had to stop himself from grabbing Athos and asking him what he had seen. He would see for himself in a moment.

Finally, the lock clicked. Porthos straightened and pushed the door open.

Inside, Treville saw a slender figure sitting by an almost extinguished brazier, staring at them as though they were spectres. 

The man looked grey in the dim moonlight that fell in through the window. Grey beard, grey hair, grey skin. His eyes had gone wide with shock, and something close to wonder.

" _You came_ ," Richelieu gasped, his voice almost as threadbare as the shirt he wore.

Treville nearly tripped as he rushed over to him, falling to his knees to throw his arms around the Cardinal. He had spoken; he had recognised them, recognised _him_.

Richelieu's grip was feeble as they embraced, and his hands shook. The Great Man felt so small in Treville's arms. 

Richelieu sighed, leaning against Treville's chest. "Jean," he whispered, "you're here." 

Treville shivered. In eight months, no one had spoken his Christian name.

He cleared his throat, blinking away tears. "Of course," he said. "I got your message." Drawing back, he showed Richelieu the cross around his neck.

"You found it." 

Treville saw the Cardinal close his eyes in relief, and for the first time noticed the dark bruises that lined Richelieu's jaw, partly visible despite his beard. He was unshaven, his hair grown longer than Treville remembered, and he was painfully thin. 

A cold rage rose where fear and grief had ruled mere moments before.

"Vargas—?" Treville began, lifting a hand to cup Richelieu's face. It was then that he saw the leather collar around his throat. There was no clasp; the ends had been stitched together, making it impossible to remove by hand. There was only a ring to attach it to a chain in a wall; or a table.

Naked horror supplanted all other emotions as Treville touched the collar. It made him tremble. _That Vargas had dared…_

"Let's get this off." Treville drew his dagger. His heart stopped as Richelieu flinched. "I need to cut through it. _Trust me_."

Only when Richelieu nodded did Treville start breathing again.

"Do it."

Treville hooked his fingers under the leather band as he sliced the stitches that held the collar together. It was just loose enough to allow a hand to grab it. Treville did not stop to think about that. As soon as the seams parted he flung the collar away.

It hit the nearest wall with a thud and Richelieu took a shuddering breath. Treville reached out to pull him closer again, putting his cheek against Richelieu's hair. Richelieu felt cold.

" _Minister_."

They both looked up. 

"We should leave," Athos urged.

 _Of course._ Treville dropped his hands. Getting Richelieu to safety was the most important thing. Everything else had to wait – comfort; inspecting Richelieu's wounds; and revenge.

Straightening, Treville slipped off his woollen cloak, draping it over Richelieu's shoulders. The ghost of a smile darting across the Cardinal's face made his heart ache. 

He stood, reaching out a hand to help Richelieu up. "Can you walk?"

Richelieu nodded, but then hesitated. "We will have to see." He winced as he got to his feet, taking Treville's arm for support. 

Treville had to bite back a curse as he looked down. At least one of the musketeers exhaled sharply. The shirt Richelieu wore did not cover his bare legs and he was barefoot, but in the dim light it was impossible to tell whether his feet were bruised or bloody – apart from the two smallest toes on each foot, which were gone. 

For a moment the world disappeared in a cold, white haze. It was only Richelieu's insistent tugging on his arm that reminded Treville of the task at hand. As Athos had pointed out, they needed to leave. Richelieu's safety was more important than his rage.

Wrapping his arm around Richelieu's waist to support him, Treville pushed aside any thoughts of the _other_ room they had found. "Let's get you out of here, Your Eminence." 

They walked slowly; d'Artagnan helping to support the Cardinal. Richelieu made no sounds of discomfort, but Treville could see he was wincing on every other step. The injuries to his feet had to be recent.

The heavy footfall of an armoured man descending the stairs made Athos bring the group to an abrupt halt. Swiftly, silently, Porthos positioned himself next to the open doorway that was about to admit the returning guard. The sound of what had to be a scabbard carelessly dragging along a stone wall made Treville guess that whatever the girl had offered the guard in the kitchens had involved alcohol. 

The guard had barely set a foot into the hallway before Porthos grabbed him, knocking him out with the butt of his pistol.

A gasp disrupted Porthos' efforts to lower the guard to the ground silently. The guard's noisy descent had covered up the sound of a lighter footfall following on his heels. Treville tightened his grip on the Cardinal's waist as Athos stepped in front of the stairs, sword drawn. The musketeer lowered his weapon immediately.

"He's not dead," he reassured the girl who reluctantly stepped into view, her eyes fixed on the unconscious guard.

"Annette," Richelieu whispered.

The girl's eyes widened as she saw him. Treville realised with a sickening jolt that they hadn't even asked her name. She was risking her employment, her livelihood, perhaps even her life, for the Cardinal. She couldn't be older than sixteen.

"Your Eminence!" Annette's face fell. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't get to you anymore; they wouldn't let me go down here, I—"

"You have nothing to be sorry for. As you can see, our plan succeeded." Richelieu fell silent for a moment. Although the musketeers looked impatient to be gone, none of them interrupted the curious exchange between the servant girl and their old enemy. "Did they hurt you, child?"

"No. They don't suspect me at all. The guard they caught never mentioned me, when—" She faltered, tears forming in her eyes. 

"Vargas' crimes are not your fault."

Treville resisted the urge to hug Richelieu even tighter. 

"Why did you come down here, Annette?" Athos interrupted.

Annette looked at him, fear written clear on her face. "Señor Vargas has returned," she said in a small voice. "He's brought the rest of the guards back."

Treville could feel Richelieu stiffen at his side. He grabbed his sword tightly with his free hand. _Damn the man and his timing._

"Why didn't you tell us about that first?" Aramis hissed.

"Aramis, this is not the time," Treville said. He turned to Annette calmly, although he longed for nothing more than to pick up Richelieu and carry him out of the dungeon. "Is Vargas already in the building?" 

"His carriage was approaching when I came down. They'll be opening the gates for him now." 

There was still some time then. _But for what?_

"And now?" d'Artagnan asked.

"We need to leave," Aramis said, "and fast."

Although they avoided looking at the Cardinal in the ensuing pause, Treville could tell from their faces that the musketeers realised they would not be going anywhere fast with Richelieu. Treville squared his jaw, and met their eyes in turn, daring them to suggest that they couldn't save him. 

As though able to read his mind, Athos sighed. "So what now?"

"We fight them." Treville would die before he abandoned Richelieu, before he allowed him to be killed or returned to Vargas' dungeon. He would kill any man who tried.

"They outnumber us six to one – _it would be suicide_." 

"I'm _not asking you_ to join me. "

"There are too many of them – we need to avoid a battle," d'Artagnan cut in. "If we can't escape through the gardens, we need to find another way out."

A moment of contemplative silence fell over the group.

"Do you still need me?" Treville had forgotten Annette was still there.

Richelieu reached to take her hand. "Hide, my child. Return to your quarters and go to sleep." Treville couldn't fail to notice that only half of the finger's on Richelieu's right hand closed around hers. Two remained stiff, like they had been broken, and left untreated, and the ring finger on his left hand was missing. Feeling sick to his stomach, Treville tightened his grip on his sword. He wanted to grab Richelieu and run.

Annette squeezed the Cardinal's hands reverently before she let go and turned to leave. 

"Wait." Athos stopped her. "Where will Vargas be heading first?" 

  


* * *

  
Although Vargas must have noticed the lack of guards on the first floor, he walked into their trap regardless. 

The spymaster's escort stepped into his living quarters with swords drawn. From their positions either side of the door Aramis and Porthos grabbed the first two guardsmen to enter, pulling them inside in a sudden forward motion that made them stumble to the ground, momentarily blocking the advance of their comrades. The two musketeers used the moment of confusion to grab the following guards by their sword arms and plunging their daggers their opponents' throats. As Porthos and Aramis engaged the remaining guards, making use of the narrow entrance and their short blades against their enemies' long rapiers, Athos and d'Artagnan made short work of the two guards who had stumbled into the room before they could regain their footing.

Vargas had taken a step back from the fight, but before he could make a sound, Treville stepped out behind him from where he had hidden in the corridor leading to the spymaster's quarters and raised a dagger to his throat. Before the blade touched his skin, Vargas grabbed hold of Treville's hand, digging his fingers into the flesh between fingers and thumb, clawing, twisting the hand away. Treville was taken by surprise only for a moment. He hooked his legs around Vargas' before the Spaniard could shake him off, sending them both to the floor, rolling them over, until he was on top, blade firm in his hand and pressed against Vargas' throat. 

"Whatever you have to say, Señor," he panted. "Say it quietly."

Vargas watched the last of his guards fall with a snarl on his face before Treville pulled him to his feet with some help from d'Artagnan and left him in the musketeer's care, fearing his control might slip if Vargas were to be left in his hands any longer.

"Tie him up!" He snapped. There were worse things Treville would have preferred to see done to the spymaster, but there were still two dozen soldiers between Richelieu and liberty and they would be easier to manage with a hostage. For now, Vargas got to live.

"Treville. How odd to see a Minister of the Crown creeping around in enemy territory with a bunch of spies."

Treville glared at him, and Vargas turned his attention to Aramis, who was ripping a dead man's shirt into strips to bind Vargas with. "I thought your face seemed familiar."

"Did you come back early because you remembered me?" The musketeer stood up. "I'm flattered."

"Couldn't have done us a greater favour," Porthos remarked.

" _Porthos_. Don't believe _our_ account is settled yet. Ah!" Vargas gasped as Aramis tightly bound his wrists in front of him. "You've been lucky so far." 

Porthos threw a grim look back at the late guardsmen. "That had nothing to do with luck." 

Vargas secured, Porthos and Treville made their way back into the spymaster's quarters where they had left Richelieu in a small dressing room. Treville could read the relief in the Cardinal's eyes when they entered. 

"We have him," Treville said.

Richelieu took the news without much emotion. "Good," he said, returning his attention to dressing. As Richelieu would have been of little use in the fight, the musketeers had suggested he search the room for something to wear. At least he would have some protection against the cold night once they made it outside.

Vargas' clothes fit him badly and his stiff fingers made adjusting them difficult. The trousers and vest were too loose, and he winced as he put on the shoes. The Cardinal had been most insistent about shoes.

There was a lump of emotions stuck in Treville's throat as Porthos bent down to help adjust the buckles; his expression surprisingly gentle for a man who had just been in a fight. Wondering what scars the fresh clothes hid was another thing that had to wait until later. There were so many things to do, to learn – all later.

 _Later_ was a lurking demon.

Treville looked away, scanning the room, until they were done. 

They were in Vargas' private chambers, but there was no sign of a filing cabinet or even a desk. They could have asked Annette where he kept his papers while they had the chance, but it was too late now. Treville would not risk Richelieu's life by staying longer than necessary for something that might or might not be there. 

"Are you ready?" They needed to return to the others. To _Vargas_. 

Richelieu nodded. He held out Treville's cloak, but Treville declined to take it, already slinging one of Vargas' around his shoulders. "Keep it," he said. "It's warmer." _And it doesn't reek of Vargas._

They left the room; Richelieu leaning on Porthos' arm. 

Athos stood watch at the end of the corridor. D'Artagnan was holding their bound prisoner by the arm, with his pistol pointed at Vargas' stomach. 

Richelieu was unable to tear his eyes away from the spymaster. Treville held his breath as the two stared at each other.

"You let my dog out," Vargas drawled. "How rude of you."

Richelieu flinched. He lifted a hand his to neck, as if to remind himself that the collar was gone.

"You're the only dog I see, Vargas," Treville snapped. 

The spymaster summoned a grim smile. "My associate is not going to let you walk out of here."

"I'm sure he'll change his mind when he sees you. It's time to leave." Treville motioned to Athos to take the lead and head for the stairs. "You will accompany us back to France, Señor."

"Does your King have another problem he needs my help with?"

"Another word and you'll be gagged."

"You should reconsider the way you treat your future host, Treville." Vargas continued to smile, despite the muzzle pressing into his stomach. "I hope you've acquainted yourself with our dungeon. If not, I'm sure his Eminence can explain the details of what you have to look forward to."

" _Don't_." Richelieu had turned white as a sheet. He had not taken his eyes off Vargas once. "Don't you dare."

"Don't talk to him," Treville warned, gently touching Richelieu's back. But it was too late.

"Treville; your Christian name is _Jean_ , isn't it?"

Treville was too taken aback to say anything. At his side, Richelieu trembled. It made Treville's blood run cold. _What did Vargas know?_ Unable to stop himself, he pulled Richelieu closer.

Vargas' eyes flashed.

"That's it," Aramis said, balling up a strip of cloth, which he shoved into Vargas' mouth. "No more talking until we're outside."

As Aramis and d'Artagnan turned Vargas around to follow Athos, Treville felt Richelieu lean against him with a sigh.

"We'll be out of here soon," Treville reassured him. 

  


* * *

  
Raveau awaited them in the main hall. The nobleman looked as though he had dressed in haste. He was surrounded by a dozen armed Guardsmen who looked fully alert and were taking cover behind the furniture. Athos ducked back as pistol balls zipped past his ear, and D'Artagnan covered their lantern immediately in the hope of hiding their numbers. 

"Stop!" Aramis shouted in Spanish. "We have Vargas!" Shoving their prisoner close enough to the doorway to be seen had the desired effect of persuading the soldiers to stop shooting.

"What do you want?" Raveau shouted back in French.

"Retreat!" Athos' voice, hardened by the battlefield, boomed through the hall. "If you attack, our hostage dies with us."

A momentary silence fell over the hall. The musketeers waited, tensing, keeping their own weapons ready. 

"Lay down your arms," Raveau called, "hand over Señor Vargas and our prisoner, and your lives will be spared."

It did not take much to imagine what their lives would be spared for. Treville reached for Richelieu's hand, and felt the stiffness of his fingers against his. As he looked into his face, Treville was taken aback by the determined look in the Cardinal's eyes. 

"Not going to happen," was Athos' reply. Richelieu pulled away from Treville and tugged at the musketeer's sleeve. 

"Then we will have to attack," shouted Raveau. 

"Wait!" Athos turned to look at Richelieu, his face immobile. "What?"

"Raveau is a coward and has no love left for Vargas. He rented his chateau to the Crown because he is in debt, not out of patriotism."

Athos frowned. "Are you suggesting we bribe him in front of Vargas' own guards?"

Richelieu sighed. "He will not fight if you offer him a way to retreat with his honour intact."

"Are you certain about that?"

"I listened to Vargas and him argue for weeks." Treville pressed Richelieu's hand briefly, the gesture hidden by the dark.

"Of course." Casting a glance out of narrowed eyes at Vargas who was glowering at them, Athos turned back to the doorway. "Are you really going to risk putting a ball through Minister Olivarez' favourite knight?"

Again, silence.

"One who let himself be captured!" Raveau's delayed reply indicated he was not entirely convinced of his own words. The power and influence granted to favourites at the Spanish Court was an even greater plague than in France. It was how Olivarez himself had been able to rise to the post of First Minister despite comparatively humble beginnings. The death of one of his staunchest supporters and most valuable agent would shake up many things at the Spanish Court – no doubt leading to changes that some would eventually come to enjoy, but perhaps not during a war with France. If he were merely to be captured, Spain could hope for a speedy rescue by one of Vargas' spies. A vain hope, given that they would have to fight their way past Treville. 

"You would not attempt to save his life?" Athos called. "Señor, if you attack, it is our duty to kill Vargas and the Cardinal."

Treville closed his eyes. _Athos had to be bluffing._

Raveau hesitated again. "If I let you go, will you release, Vargas?"

Athos briefly turned back to Richelieu to lift an eyebrow in wonder. 

"We are leaving with him – alive," Athos replied without much emotion. Nothing in Athos' voice gave away that he realised that they had won. "Or we fight and he dies." 

The musketeers had the pleasure of hearing Raveau order his guards to stand down in Spanish. Upon Athos' sign, d'Artagnan forced Vargas out through the doorway, making sure to keep the Spaniard between himself and the soldiers. Aramis slowly edged forward towards the doorway to cover him.

"Have the guards put down their weapons, walk away, and open the gates!"

"And if I refuse?" 

Treville could not see Raveau, but he could hear the apprehension in his voice.

Athos remained calm. "Then you face the same impasse as before."

Raveau gave the orders, and Treville let a shallow breath escape between his teeth. 

The musketeers waited a few moments for the guards to comply, listening to the sound of metal clanging against the floor. As he walked into the main hall – one hand on his pistol, the other at Richelieu's back – Treville could see the guards standing against one wall, their weapons in a heap on the other side of the room. 

Athos and Aramis made sure to pick up as many pistols as they could, passing extras to the others and removing the balls from the rest. Once they finished they left the hall together, but instead of heading for the courtyard, the gates and a possible ambush, they made for the gardens.

As the guards had been robbed of their ranged weapons and had to pick up their blades before giving chase, the musketeers made it outside with a good head-start, despite having to half-carry Richelieu. With no need for secrecy now, the musketeers made good use of the extra guns to take out the night patrol in the garden as soon as the men advanced on them. Only one guard came too close. He jumped out at them, sword raised, from the Pavilion. Treville sidestepped his lunge and batted his blade away, causing the man to overshoot his mark and stumble. Treville ran him through with his rapier. It was the only time he let go of Richelieu.

They were on the walls within moments of entering the garden. The rest of them provided covering fire as Porthos and d'Artagnan secured their ropes to the top of the wall. 

"Minister!"

It was time to leave. 

"It'll only be a few moments," Treville said as he helped Richelieu on Aramis' back. Richelieu nodded, but Treville could see his nerves were frayed. He prayed the Cardinal would be able to hold on until they were safe on the ground. As soon as they disappeared over the wall, Treville cut the bindings on Vargas' arms and helped to hook his tied wrists over Porthos' gorget. At least Vargas wouldn't be able to strangle him as the musketeer tried to get them both down. 

No more assistance required, d'Artagnan and Athos dropped their weapons and along with Treville made their way down the wall. Mercifully their way down was even easier than the way up. As soon as their feet touched the ground they headed for the cover of the nearby copse where they had abandoned their guide to watch over their horses. _If she was gone…_

Catching up with Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan helped him drag their prisoner along, as Treville rushed to aid Aramis in supporting a stumbling Richelieu. Treville sent a silent prayer to the heavens, thankful that Richelieu at least had shoes. They couldn't risk relighting their lantern before they were reunited with the horses. 

As they made it to the copse they found that not only was their guide still there, but by the time they hailed her she had already untied the horses. There was little time for gratitude as Treville could imagine an armed search party already mounting in the chateau's courtyard. 

As he was the lightest of the musketeers, d'Artagnan volunteered to take Vargas on his horse. Although Vargas would remain tied up, they warned him that they could be tempted to tie him to the saddle instead if he tried anything stupid. 

They took Vargas' glowering as agreement.

"What about the Cardinal?" Aramis asked. 

"He rides with me," Treville insisted. He could see Athos flinch.

"There's one more thing." Athos held up one of their ropes. Treville glared at him.

"It's almost a day's ride back to Amiens," Athos reasoned. "He's weak." 

"You are not going to tie him up!" Treville had remained calm throughout their escape, but now his heart was hammering. He had _seen_ the restraints in the torture chamber. _He would be seeing them for a long while._

Athos' face fell. He turned towards Richelieu, as if he expected him to agree to this abuse.

Richelieu was silent for a moment. "Jean." 

Treville felt sick as he saw the resignation in his eyes. 

"I would fall off."

Treville looked away, trying to take a deep breath. It took a moment before he succeeded. 

"We can find a cart in the next village."

"And a horse trained to drive it?" Athos questioned. "And the time to harness it? At night?" 

"We need to hurry, Minister."

 _Tomorrow all of this will be over_ , Treville told himself. He nodded, unable to look Richelieu in the eyes. 

They lifted Richelieu onto the horse, tying his legs to the saddle with a set of spare reins. Treville mounted behind him. Using the sturdy rope from their climb, Athos tied them together at the waist. Richelieu was silent, but Treville could feel him take a shuddering breath, and the faint tremors that ran through his body as the restraints tightened around him.

_Just a few hours._

The animals were restless, sensing their rider's tension. They wanted to run. Once the musketeers had mounted they gave their horses free rein. 

  


* * *

  
Only after the chateau and the village it governed had disappeared into the night did the musketeers pace their mounts. The extra weight did not prevent the horses carrying two riders from running, but the musketeers would have to switch mounts between them eventually to keep the animals from exhausting themselves beyond recovery. 

As of yet, there were no signs of pursuit; no baying hounds, no sound of hoof beats, no lights winding along the nearby road. For the moment, they dared to breathe. They decided to make use of the momentarily safe road as long as it was dark and they were less likely to run into other travellers.

As they rode through the night, Richelieu sitting in front of him – alive, breathing – Treville could believe that eventually, maybe, everything could once more be as it should. But the rope tying them together, the stiffness of Richelieu's seat and his prolonged silence created constant, tangible doubt. 

Where did Richelieu's mind go, as he sat in the saddle silently, unable to move?

"Your Eminence?" 

"Yes?" 

How could Treville even _consider_ asking him how he was feeling? Gathering the reins in one hand, Treville covered Richelieu's hands with his own. It felt so unreal to know that Richelieu was really there. Alive. He wanted to take him in his arms, but it was impossible. Until they were alone, he couldn't even kiss him.

" _Jean._ " Richelieu gripped his hand tightly. "I am not made of glass." He sounded tense, but Treville didn't know what to say. _I'm sorry?_ Which of his sins would he be apologising for? _For tying you up? For not coming sooner? For falling for Vargas' lies in the first place?_

Treville glanced at the musketeers. Even whispers could be dangerous. "I know," he said, stroking his thumb over Richelieu's fingers, taking care to avoid the stiff ones. _Did they hurt? How had they been broken?_

Letting go of his fingers he wrapped an arm around Richelieu. The Cardinal's body was as tense as his voice.

"We are at war now," Treville said. It was the most innocuous topic to discuss in their present company. 

"Vargas told me." Perhaps it wasn't the right topic after all. 

"Did he tell you any details?"

"No." Richelieu paused, putting a hand on Treville's arm. "Tell me."

"The King made Prince Gaston a general." It went unsaid that this had been done to keep the King's vain brother from feeling slighted and supporting France's enemies. Richelieu himself had proposed the strategy before, whenever war with their neighbours had appeared imminent. 

"Does he bother you?" 

"So far he is doing his duty." Gaston was not a catastrophe in the field, but there were others who would have been more deserving. "Louis tasked him with taking a fort at the foot of the Pyrenees."

"You shouldn't allow him that far out of your sight."

A tentative smile tugged at Treville's lips. 

"If he supports anyone, I'm afraid it will be Lorraine again."

"Have they declared themselves yet?"

"We expect they soon will."

Richelieu fell silent and again Treville wondered where his thoughts took him. He would rather it were to Gaston or the belligerent Duke of Lorraine than a dungeon.

"Did you hear about Corbie?" Treville asked, then almost bit his tongue. How could Richelieu have heard of the siege?

"No. Vargas kept quiet about details, after— in the cellar."

Treville tightened his grip. "It was one of the first targets of the Spanish invasion."

"Did they take it?"

"They lost it again."

"Ah." Richelieu sounded distracted, uninterested. 

"The King lead the effort to take Corbie back in person." Louis' willingness to lead his troops was one of the qualities they both valued about him. 

"He did?"

"He took the city in only six weeks."

"Just six."

Treville frowned. "I accompanied him." 

"You did."

"He did well."

"He did."

"Armand?"

"Yes?"

Treville was unable to keep the worry from creeping into his voice. "Do you need something? Water?"

"No."

Treville swallowed. "About the siege—"

"I knew it was you," Richelieu interrupted.

_What?_

"I immediately knew it was you in the dungeon," he continued. "You look different. You style your beard differently. Your hair is shorter than in my— than I remembered."

 _'In my—'_?

"You thought of me?" Treville threw a hasty glance at the musketeers. No one was paying attention. They were watching the road, as they should.

"Every day. When I closed my eyes. I hoped—"

" _What_?" 

Richelieu had thought of him. Dreamt of him. 

He was silent now. 

"Armand?" Sitting so close, even in the dark Treville could see Richelieu's shoulders relax. " _Armand_?"

"Tell me about Corbie."

"Are you sure?"

Richelieu leant back against Treville's chest, making their horse snort as its riders upset its balance. "Just talk."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You're assuming your Cardinal is still the same man he was when you saw him last."_

They passed the border without incident. Their guide had done her job well. Although they had heard Spanish soldiers, they had never seen them.

Now the city walls and the tower of the grand cathedral of Amiens loomed on the horizon. The long journey had taken its toll on them, but now that they were back on French soil their spirits revived. Even the horses pricked up their ears as they realised how close to home they were.

They had made it. Richelieu was alive, and he was back in France.

As they turned into the road that would take them the final half-mile to Amiens, Richelieu sat up straight in the saddle, awake and alert for the first time in long hours. He had grown ever more distant as their journey had continued, even dozing from time to time. Treville hadn't been able to do anything for him but hold on to him tightly. The Lord knew they all needed a day of rest after this.

"Cut me loose." Richelieu cleared his throat, his voice gravelly from disuse. "We are almost there. I can manage to stay on the horse on my own for a little while."

"Are you sure?" Treville felt like a villain as soon as the words left his mouth. Of course Richelieu would want to ride into the city unbound. Yet Treville was unable to fight the impulse to protect. It was his nature. Even as a Minister, Treville would never stop being a guard. 

"Do it," Richelieu said.

Treville made the others wait as he used his dagger to cut the rope and reins tying the Cardinal to him and to the saddle. As soon as he was done, Richelieu let his legs hang free for a moment. Treville prepared to grab him should he sway, but Richelieu put his feet back into the stirrups without incident, voicing only a small sound of discomfort as he did so. 

The musketeers made no move to extend similar courtesy to Vargas. 

As they approached the city gate, it turned out their return had been anticipated. The guards ordered a man to lead them directly to the Governor's Palais, where they finally dismounted. Treville jumped to the ground as soon as they stopped, offering to help Richelieu down. Richelieu had held himself in the saddle during their trek through the city without requiring assistance, but after their long journey his legs were so stiff he could hardly lift them over the horse's head. Treville guided his foot gently to prevent him from kicking the animal in the neck. 

As soon as his feet touched the ground Richelieu half-collapsed against Treville. He would have offered to carry Richelieu up the few steps to the entrance, but knew the gesture would be unwelcome. It was one thing for the Cardinal to accept help getting off a horse after a night in the saddle, and another to be carried up a small set of stairs like an invalid. 

Treville, too, felt stiff after the long ride, but told himself that they would find a bed soon, for both of them. Leaving Athos and Porthos to guard Vargas in the courtyard, they slowly made their way up the stairs.

They had barely entered the Palais before Governor Lapierre hailed them. 

"Minister! I heard of your return. Your mission was successful, I hope?" The Governor eyed Richelieu curiously, trying to catch a glimpse beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

"It was, thank you," Treville said coolly. Lapierre would learn of his guest's identity soon enough, but for now Treville and the musketeers had decided to protect Richelieu from prying eyes. The musketeers themselves – after their recent fight with Vargas' escort, and two days of hard riding – were a sight to make a valet weep; and _they_ had not spent months in a Spanish dungeon.

"We brought a prisoner with us, and the men presently guarding him need to be relieved. We all need some rest."

"I understand. My Palais remains at your disposal. Your rooms have not been touched since you left." He paused, casting another glance at Richelieu. "Can I still expect you and your companions to join us for dinner or will you retire directly?"

Treville wanted nothing so much as to curl up in a featherbed – with Richelieu – and sleep for days, but he had not forgotten that Louis had sent him to Amiens for a reason. He could not allow himself to show the Governor any disrespect or weakness if he was to have any hope of concluding the negotiations in the King's favour. Cancelling the previous day's appointments to ride off into enemy territory had been bad enough. 

"We will be there," Treville said, supressing a sigh. "But first our prisoner needs seeing to."

"Of course. I could give him a room—"

"Is there somewhere safer?"

"He's a devious one," d'Artagnan chimed in.

"There is the city's western tower – unless you want to take him to the fort?"

"Any isolated cells in the tower?" The fewer people saw Vargas, the better. He would not take the spymaster through the entire city if he could avoid it. Besides, Treville could imagine how his negotiations with the fort's commander for soldiers and supplies would go if he asked him to hide away a secret prisoner the day before. 

"I believe so. Just talk to the warden." 

At least one of their problems had a temporary solution. "And our guest," Treville nodded at Richelieu, "needs accommodation, including clothes and a bath."

Lapierre's eyes widened. "Is he sick?"

"No." Treville tightened his grip on Richelieu's arm. It had been cold in his cell.

"Injured," Aramis said firmly. "I will tend to him myself, but if you employ a talented barber, perhaps you could lend him to us. The King will be grateful if this guest is satisfied by your hospitality."

"Of course." Lapierre's eyes widened.

If Treville was right, the barber would not only be talented, but willing to tell his master all he learned about the mysterious guest. 

"He's not Spanish, is he?" 

"No." Treville glared. Thankfully Lapierre took the hint to keep any further questions about his guest's identity to himself.

"He can make use of the Italian Room, it is heated." The Governor waved over one of his footmen. "Philippe will show you."

Following the servant, Treville helped Richelieu up the stairs, d'Artagnan and Aramis right behind them. The Italian Room was furnished with a number of paintings showing lakesides Treville didn't recognise but presumed to be Italian, and, more importantly, a fireplace, chairs, and a bed. 

"Would you like to sit down, while we wait?"

"Yes." 

Treville hoped that it was merely annoyance over his own infirmity that made Richelieu sound so pressed.

No sooner was the Cardinal seated than more servants appeared, carrying a hip-bath into the room. "There's hot water on the stove already, Messieurs," one of them said. "It will be ready momentarily." 

The servants retreated with a bow, but still the small gathering was not private enough for Treville's liking.

"Are you sure you're alright with this, your Eminence?" Treville asked. At the chateau Richelieu had been so glad to be able to dress. Now he would have to strip and trust the care of strangers – and Aramis. 

"I need to be washed," Richelieu said. Treville felt a lump form in his throat. 

"The Governor will provide you with clothes that fit better." 

"Clothes that don't reek of a man who has rotted in a dungeon for months and spent half the day on a horse."

Treville flinched. "That's what Vargas wants you to think."

"It is what any man would think," Richelieu said coldly. "It's the truth."

Treville frowned. He hadn't minded the smell on the road. He didn't mind that Richelieu was filthy now. They were _all_ filthy, stinking from the exertion of a fight and the sweat of their horses, but he knew pointing that out would not change the way Richelieu felt about himself. Treville wanted to reach out and touch him, show him how little he minded. But of course, it was impossible in the musketeers' company. There would be time for intimacy later. Hopefully. 

A knock sounded at the door and d'Artagnan opened it to admit the Governor's barber. "What can I do for you?" 

Treville left it to Aramis to explain the details as he studied the man into whose care Richelieu was about to enter. There was nothing remarkable about him. He was of medium height and stature, dressed in a clean apron. He looked like a barber, Treville decided. But then, what he had been looking for? Foreign clothes perhaps, or an amulet depicting a Spanish saint? No spy would wear either openly. 

The barber, who appeared to be what he seemed, was earnestly listening to what Aramis told him. That Richelieu had been tortured. That he needed to be cleaned and examined and made to look like a gentleman again. 

Treville turned back to Richelieu, who was seemingly treating the barber with utter disinterest, but Treville could see the way his eyes darted to the entrance where the man stood talking to Aramis every few moments. In the daylight his hair appeared even greyer.

"Do you want me to stay and help, Your Eminence?" 

Richelieu hesitated, absentmindedly playing with the seam of his cloak. "I don't think that is necessary."

Treville felt a ball of dread sink into his stomach. "…Would you prefer if I left?"

Richelieu averted his eyes. "You should check on your musketeers."

"Minister." Just as the servants arrived with the first buckets of warm water, Athos entered. 

"Yes?" Treville could not help but notice that Richelieu had turned his head as well. 

"The Governor has assigned some of his guards to assist in escorting Vargas to the tower. Do you wish to accompany us?"

"Don't let me keep you from your duty, Captain," Richelieu said.

The shock of being called _Captain_ only momentarily distracted Treville from the real issue. _He doesn't want me to stay and see – what?_

Treville immediately chided himself for the selfish thought, but he could not help but wonder whether Richelieu would allow Treville to undress him ever again. Whether he still wanted to be seen and touched. As they had embraced in the dungeon, he had still hoped that things could return to the way they had been, but now—

"Minister?"

Treville swallowed. "Yes. I'll come with you." He cast one last look at Richelieu who had fixed his eyes on the bath again. 

"I'll be back soon." Richelieu merely nodded. As he followed Athos out of the room Treville tried to ignore the ache in his chest.

  


* * *

  


As he stepped into the courtyard, Treville saw that the Governor had not only provided extra guards, but a small carriage as well. Athos got in first, and the guards pushed Vargas in after him, his hands still tied. As soon as Treville took the opposite seat the spymaster's attention turned towards him. 

"Minister Treville," he said. Treville regarded him coolly as the carriage started moving. "You were so preoccupied with the Cardinal; you never let us talk on our journey."

"It is almost as though you were gagged for a reason," Athos said. 

Vargas kept looking at Treville. "Did Richelieu have anything to say about me?"

"No." Treville glared at him. "We had more important matters to discuss."

 _'I need to be washed.'_ Something besides worry stirred in Treville's guts, hot and red. Perhaps agreeing to oversee Vargas' transfer had not been such a good idea after all.

"The Cardinal is already looking forward to repaying your hospitality," he continued. Richelieu had said nothing of the sort, but Vargas didn't need to know that. 

Vargas smirked. "You're assuming your Cardinal is still the same man he was when you saw him last."

"You did _not_ break him."

 _'Would you prefer if I left?'_

Something must have showed in Treville's eyes as Vargas' smirk widened. "You don't know all of it yet."

But Aramis might. And the barber. A complete stranger.

Treville gripped the edge of his seat. "You are going to pay for every day he spent in that dungeon." Athos was shooting him warning looks, but Treville ignored him. "I will see that you _rot_."

"Whatever you plan to do to me, Richelieu is never going to forget what _I_ did to _him_. Eight months is a long time."

"It's over now." _He is safe. Alive._ "The Cardinal is going to lead the war against your King, while _you_ are the prisoner."

"And you think that state of affairs will be allowed to last?" Vargas leaned forwards, but Athos pulled him back into his seat. 

"Do you miss being gagged so much, Vargas?" the musketeer asked.

"You can try to deny the truth, but you must know Spain will not tolerate him becoming First Minister again." Vargas caught Treville's gaze. "We can take him again. _He_ knows it. _You_ know it. And you know there is nothing you can do to prevent it. Just as you couldn't before."

"You—!" Treville knocked his head as he jumped out of his seat. Athos threw out a hand to steady him.

"Let him talk. It's all he can do."

Treville slumped back onto the bench, pretending his hands weren't shaking.

"Is it?" Vargas looked undisturbed by Treville's outburst. "Spain isn't going to let me rot. Unlike the Cardinal's, _my_ abduction was highly public."

"I have a feeling King Louis will push for your execution before Philip even hears of it," Athos said.

"My agents are everywhere; they _will_ find me." Vargas caught Treville's eyes again. "Once I am free, Minister, I am going to take Richelieu and bury him somewhere you'll never find him."

"I'll kill you before you have another chance."

Athos lifted an appeasing hand, placing the other on Treville's knee. "Don't listen to him. He's tied up. He's our prisoner."

"The loyal musketeer." Vargas turned towards Athos as he leant back in his seat. Athos glowered at him. "What reasons did Treville invent to convince you to take a Minister of the Crown into enemy territory?" 

"I still have that gag."

"I doubt he told you the truth about why he was so eager to come," Vargas continued. "Tell me, did he _beg_ you?"

"Hold your tongue," Treville hissed. 

"Look, he's quaking in his boots. He doesn't want you to know why the Cardinal is so precious to him. It's not for his intellect."

"Careful, Señor," Athos warned. There was no telling what he thought underneath his calm demeanour.

"You doubt him, Athos. I can see it in your eyes." 

_'You behave like a fresh recruit.'_

"Athos, gag him!"

"What did your Minister do when you found the Cardinal in that cell? Did you see them on their horse? The Cardinal leaning back in his arms? Whispering? Is that how you treat your political enemy?"

"He asked about the war!" Treville had held Richelieu as he swayed in the saddle. He had stroked his stiff, abused hands when no one was watching, and they talked about the war. He had not embraced him the way he wanted, or kissed him the way he wanted, or said any of the words that burned a hole in his tongue. Because of Vargas.

"How romantic."

" _Shut your mouth!_ "

"Is that what you talk about when you have him in bed? He tells you how many lives he plans to waste while you suck his cock?" 

Treville was on his feet before he knew it – as much as that was possible inside the carriage – but Athos was quicker. He lunged at Vargas, wrestling him onto the seat. Grabbing him by the neck, he forced the gag into his mouth.

"I warned you!"

Treville dropped back into his seat; heart pounding. He had not drawn a weapon. He had not dishonoured himself that much. 

"Athos—"

"Not now. We're almost there." Athos pulled Vargas back upright. The spymaster glared but did not try to speak again.

"He—"

"—Has a big mouth, we knew that. I asked you not to listen to him."

Treville sat up straight. He would not be scolded like a schoolboy. "Vargas—" But what was he going to say? That Vargas was lying? Athos already believed that. _Didn't he?_

Athos looked grim; perhaps from more than having to subdue a prisoner. A prisoner Treville had been about to attack. Again. Because of _ludicrous_ accusations that none of his musketeers would ever believe. He folded his hands in his lap to hide their trembling. 

Fortunately, Athos was looking out of the window. "We just passed through a gate."

Treville tried to feign interest. 

He had come so close to murdering Vargas in cold blood. 

_'Once I am free…'_ On the opposite seat, the spymaster sat, gagged, staring right back at him out of devil eyes. Treville looked away. 

Vargas would be taken to Paris, thrown into the Bastille, and held under guard night and day. As soon as the King though it prudent, he would call for his execution. Once Louis learned what had been done to the Cardinal, it probably would not take long. 

Richelieu was back at the chateau, being stripped down to his scarred skin, his own blood being washed from his toes – what was left of them. Treville bit his tongue. It would do him no good to imagine how Richelieu had been tortured. 

The carriage stopped.

A guard opened the door and helped Vargas down. Treville gripped his sword tightly, prepared to follow.

"Perhaps you should stay with the carriage?" 

Treville held Athos' gaze. He could not stay; sit still. "What just happened—"

"Later. We are all tired. I already sent Porthos to his quarters – he was so tense you could have used him to string a crossbow."

Treville sat down again but felt no less high-strung. He could not just sit and wait. 

"I will deliver Vargas into the wardens' care, and we can discuss the paperwork in your office," continued Athos. His meaning was clear. _We will have a talk about this, but not in a prison courtyard and not in a carriage._ Athos did not behave as though he suspected anything, and yet—

Treville stood. "Perhaps I'll walk there."

  


* * *

  


As Treville arrived at the Palais the carriage was just being driven out of the courtyard. Athos must have returned moments before him. It didn't surprise him. Treville hadn't hurried back, almost getting himself lost by not paying attention to where he was going in a strange city. He walked up the steps to the Palais' entrance with little more purpose than he had wandered the streets of Amiens. 

If Athos asked him why he had really accompanied the musketeers to the chateau, he would have no answer. The former Captain of the most prestigious guard regiment in the country, and the present Minister for War should be a better liar. Richelieu should never have trusted a man like him with his secrets.

As he headed for his office, Treville stopped at the top of the stairs. If he turned right instead of left, he would eventually arrive at the Italian Room. He could check on Richelieu, see for himself that he was safe. But then? Athos would still be waiting for him; and all that Vargas had told him.

Treville continued towards his office and found Athos already there, standing by the window. His secretaries were nowhere in sight.

Treville closed the door behind him almost noiselessly. "Were you satisfied with the security of the prison?" 

"It will be sufficient for our needs, I'd say," Athos began. "Vargas is currently the only prisoner on his floor."

"Did you tell anyone who he is?"

"I told the Governor his name, but not his profession. And I let him know that the King is eagerly awaiting meeting his prisoner, and so Vargas presently enjoys a windowless cell on the second floor all to himself."

This did not make Treville relax. "Still gagged?"

Athos betrayed no hint of emotion. "There's a guard in front of his cell every hour of the day, and the men know neither you or the Cardinal well enough to give Vargas' stories any credit."

"Good," Treville said brusquely. "Put the papers from his transfer on the desk. Favre will look at them later. You can go now."

Athos gave him a _look_ , and Treville sighed. "I'm sorry, Athos. I dishonoured myself; attacking a restrained prisoner—"

"He provoked you." 

"That is no excuse. I'm a – a Minister." He'd almost said _Captain_. "I should set a better example." 

"I'm not going to argue against that." Athos took a deep breath. "Will you finally tell me what this is about? The King didn't order you to accompany us. You _know_ I know that."

Treville frowned, feeling his heart beat faster. "I am not obliged to explain my reasons to you." 

Athos let his shoulders hang. The musketeer looked in need of a drink, which made two of them. 

"Even now you will not tell me." 

_Even now_ after they were back? Or after what Vargas told him?

Treville walked past Athos, putting the desk between them. "It is safer that you don't know. _Trust me_." 

_Safer for Richelieu as well_.

"It _is_ true, isn't it?"

Treville froze. 

The musketeer was looking at him, serious as the grave. "That's why you insisted on coming?"

"I don't know what you are talking about." His heart pounding, Treville stared at Athos.

"You and the Cardinal." The musketeer wore a mask of neutrality, but there was no judgement in his eyes. "Don't worry. I am your _friend_ ," Athos continued. "You have nothing to fear from me."

"It's not just _my_ secret." Treville took an unsteady breath, attempting to calm his heart. "It takes two for a conviction."

"For sodomy?" Such an ugly word. It described an act; a mere act and nothing more.

Treville met Athos' gaze. "It's more than that." A single word was deemed sufficient to define decades of companionship, denying everything else that could be between two people. From their arguments to just a look they shared across the Court. From the brushing of hands in a busy audience chamber to a needle-sharp bite in blissful privacy. From the comfort of having him, to the despair of losing him.

"He and I…." Even with all the words in his vocabulary Treville failed to describe it. 

"Do you love him?"

Treville looked at the floor before he sought the musketeer's gaze again, grabbing the hilt of his sword for support. There was only one answer. "Yes." 

Athos took the news stoically. "Well, I can't claim to have better judgement, considering who I married."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing." 

Treville felt his heart lift. 

"I'm not going to praise you, but I'll hang before I risk your life or your reputation over this."

"And the Cardinal?"

"As you said, it takes two to convict a man. No one will hear of anything said in this room from me."

"Not even Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan?"

"I doubt their reaction would differ from mine, but it's not my secret to share."

For a moment, Treville just breathed. "Thank you, Captain," he said. "I have not treated you as you deserve. I put your position at Court at risk by accompanying you against the King's wishes."

"I understand," Athos said. "You thought we were going to kill the Cardinal."

"Weren't you?" 

"There was no need."

And no need for further questions. Treville knew every answer Athos could give. The musketeers were sworn to protect France and her secrets over her servants. It would not be the first conversation they had about the subject.

"When did you begin to suspect us?"

"After the first time you tried to blackmail me into taking you with us." 

Treville rubbed his eyes in annoyance. "I wasn't being very subtle. That's the Cardinal's forte."

Athos pursed his lips. "And you're still wearing his necklace."

Treville lifted his hand to the cross before he could stop himself. In all the excitement he'd forgotten it was there.

"I don't blame you for forcing me to take you to the chateau," Athos continued. "I know what rash decisions grow out of passion. But you need to be more careful around Vargas. You reacted exactly as he wanted you to."

"He— you heard what he said. You _saw_ what he did to the Cardinal."

"Allowing Vargas to rile you up isn't going to help. You know he enjoys torturing people, so don't play his games."

"Yes. He does." Treville only needed to remember Richelieu's feet.

Athos understood his meaning. "This is the Cardinal we are talking about. I expect he'll be hounding us again within the week."

Treville looked away. 

"Don't believe a word Vargas says—"

"You saw him in the cell! He was in that place for months."

"He sent you the cross. He won the sympathy of Raveau's guards and servants – all while he was locked up. He was sharp enough to work out how to avoid battle with Raveau. Does that not sound like the Cardinal you know?"

"It does." It sounded exactly like something his Cardinal would do.

"Have you seen him since you came back here?"

"No."

Athos frowned. "Then why are you still here?"

What _was_ he doing here? Any number of reasons came to mind; he needed to know that Vargas was securely locked away; he had to take care of the related paperwork. But they were all excuses. He was here because Richelieu had sent him away. 

"Don't tell me you're afraid of him." Athos' expression had turned cold. "That you don't want to be around him because you're afraid you can't love the man Vargas turned him into?"

Treville slammed his fists down on the desk. "Never!" That anybody should think it possible that he would abandon Richelieu while the Cardinal was so vulnerable—

Whatever the musketeer saw in his face, it stopped him in his tracks. "Then _why_?"

As Captain, Treville had made it his business to know his musketeers' demons, although they had rarely been discussed. He had ensured the men knew none of his. Having already admitted to pursuing a relationship that condemned him in the eyes of society did not make the thought of sharing his doubts on this most private of affairs feel any more natural. 

Treville sat down. "The Cardinal sent me away. He didn't want me to stay and see—" _What? Scars? Something else Vargas had cut off?_ Elbows on the table, Treville buried his face in his hands. 

"He's just come off a horse, after being tied to the saddle for the entire night. My guess is he'll feel differently now that he's no longer wearing Vargas' rags."

"He let Aramis and d'Artagnan stay."

"Aramis isn't his lover. Did it occur to you – and I never thought I would say this – that the Cardinal is protecting you as much as he is protecting himself? "

"He shouldn't have to protect anyone," Treville spat. "Vargas is right. I couldn't keep him safe. I didn't even know he was still alive. The Cardinal had to find a way to _tell me_."

"And he managed," Athos said, with the patience of a saint. "If you are concerned that the Spanish will never leave him in peace once he gets back to Paris, then I'm afraid you're right." 

Treville stared at him.

"But the Spanish aren't his only enemies," Athos continued. "How long has he been at Court? First as the Queen Mother's advisor, then the King's. He has lived with the threat of abduction and assassination for decades, and yet Vargas was the first one to succeed. I'd say someone was doing a good job of keeping the Cardinal safe. With a record like that, Vargas might very well remain the only one."

Treville laughed; he himself had wondered that the Cardinal should have died of something so mundane as an illness.

What a fool he had been. He had a lot to make up for. 

"I never thought I would say this either," Athos said, clapping a hand onto Treville's shoulder, "but you need to see the Cardinal."

"I agree." Treville took a moment to order his thoughts. Vargas. Marie. Gaston. They all might strike again in the future. But Richelieu was here _now_. Treville would offer him what support he could. If he rejected it, then… then that was how things were going to be. At least Richelieu was still alive. 

"Thank you, Athos." He pushed himself back onto his feet.

"One thing, before you go, Minister." Athos looked him up and down, and Treville realised that he was still dressed in the mud-stained clothes he had worn on their mission. "You may want to change before you go to him." 

  


* * *

  
There was a long pause before Treville's knock was answered. He had already raised his fist to knock a second time, before the door opened and d'Artagnan admitted him. 

"Minister Treville," the musketeer announced.

Treville's eyes were immediately drawn to Richelieu. The Cardinal was standing near the window, dressed in felt slippers, a simple linen shift, and stockings. His beard had been trimmed and his hair cut to look almost exactly as before his abduction. Treville could almost believe he had just stepped in to the Cardinal's bedroom in the Palais Cardinal. 

Only the light was wrong. They never met in the afternoon as they were both much too busy, and Richelieu would never be caught so underdressed during the day.

Still, Treville was so taken in by the sight that he did not notice the man packing a bag on a stool next to Richelieu until he rose with a bow. 

"Minister." 

"Monsieur Ferou, the tailor," d'Artagnan explained.

"At your service." The man bowed again before he turned towards Richelieu. "I will return for the fitting tomorrow, Monsieur."

Richelieu nodded silently, and Treville watched the tailor walk out of the door. Another glance around the room confirmed that the hip-bath and the servants were gone.

"Did everything go well?"

The musketeers' hesitation did not soothe Treville's nerves. They had washed him. They had _seen_ —

"Yes," Aramis said eventually. "The barber was quite handy." 

Treville nodded, glancing at the Cardinal who was looking out of the window, his back turned to the room. His body was tense, one arm hugging his chest, and Treville felt his heart sink.

Aramis lowered his voice. "We didn't find any open wounds or broken bones that needed our attention. There is nothing we can do about his fingers, but there should be no lasting damage – apart from the obvious."

 _It could have been worse_ , was what Aramis was saying. Treville cleared his throat. "Thank you both. You may leave now. Rest, you've earned it." 

"Thank you, Minister."

"Request two men from Governor Lapierre to guard the corridor."

"Of course, Minister."

As soon as the door closed behind the musketeers, Richelieu turned around. Treville couldn't help but think he still looked pale; a slim, white figure dressed for bed rather than debating. Now that his beard had been trimmed to just the familiar moustache and goatee the bruises along his jaw stood out more prominently. Vargas did not know how lucky he was, safe in his cell.

"The guards won't enter," Treville said, hesitantly. "They will stay outside and guard the door." Richelieu hadn't had a moment to himself since they took him out of his cell. Treville would have no one else intrude on him, not even guards. "You can have some privacy now." Treville paused. He would accept whatever Richelieu decided. "If you want."

"Does your post require you to be somewhere else?"

"No."

"Then stay," Richelieu said, stepping closer. Treville couldn't tear his eyes away as he crossed the distance between them. Richelieu wanted him to stay, and they were finally alone.

Treville pulled Richelieu in, one hand at the back of his head, and kissed him deeply. This was all he had wanted in the dungeon, and every time they had rested their horses on the way to Amiens. Any lingering doubts were washed away as the Cardinal wrapped his arms around his neck, his lips parting under Treville's. 

There were probably matters that could use Treville's attention. He hadn't even looked at the papers Athos had brought from the prison, but in this moment he didn't care. Richelieu was all he wanted, all he ever could want; he could never be close enough to sate this hunger. There could never be enough of him to satisfy his need to touch; to taste. Treville would want him forever.

It had been so long, too long. They needed to stay like this for hours; for days; for weeks. Treville knew he should go slow – but months of loneliness, of loss, didn't care how wet or awkward their kiss was – and neither, it appeared, did Richelieu. Treville had nipped his lips before he realised what he was doing. Far from shying away, Richelieu responded with a bite of his own before soothing the spot with his lips. 

When Treville finally pulled away, the Cardinal was in an even less dignified state than he; breathless, sagging against Treville as though the tension rapidly dissipating from his body was all that had held him together.

"Bed," Treville growled. 

Richelieu's eyes lit up eagerly as he allowed himself to be pulled towards the bed. Lying on his back, a subtle smile on his lips, he watched as Treville climbed onto the mattress next to him on all fours. Treville bent down to kiss that smile, gently nipping Richelieu's lip with his teeth. Unlacing Richelieu's collar, Treville peppered kisses along his throat, causing the Cardinal to emit small sighs of content. 

He pulled back to look at Richelieu for a long moment. To see him like this, relaxed, smiling… it struck Treville that this was because of _him_. 

Sorrow and loneliness were a distant memory.

Bending his head, he kissed the corner of Richelieu's mouth, his jaw, his neck. He pressed his lips to every bruise he encountered, as Richelieu stroked the sides of his face and ran his hands through his short hair. Treville stopped at Richelieu's collarbone, hesitant to uncover him further, remembering the Cardinal's reluctance to undress in front of him. Where there had been smooth skin eight months before there were now white scars. Treville lifted his hand to touch them, but hesitated.

 _"You don't know all of it yet,"_ Vargas had said.

"I missed you," Treville said, lying down at Richelieu's side. He brushed his fingers over the Cardinal's neck, following the curve of his ear, before burrowing into his hair. Richelieu's smile widened and he closed his eyes in contentment.

There were more white strands amongst the grey than Treville remembered, but it was still thick, waiting to be caressed, waiting to be grabbed, waiting to be pulled. Treville closed his eyes. There would come a time for all of that again. Hopefully.

"Is that why you accepted this post?" Richelieu's voice was steady, but as the Cardinal rolled onto his side to face him, Treville saw that his eyes were soft and dark with emotion. 

" _Minister_ Treville, is it now?" The Cardinal cocked his eyebrow at Treville, touching the blue ribbon at his throat, the symbol of his new office. 

"Minister for War," Treville said, smiling ruefully. "It's a long story." _The King needed_ someone _and I had to step up._ But he was not going to tell Richelieu that. He was not going to blame the loss of his regiment on Richelieu's presumed death. That world was gone. The one before him now looked even brighter. 

"I should like to hear it," the Cardinal said, a familiar smile playing about his lips that made Treville's heart leap. He remembered that smile. He thought on deathbeds and tombs, on months of grieving alone, in secret. That world, too, was gone and Treville would shed no tear for it.

"The attire suits you," Richelieu continued, running a hand – the one with five fingers – down Treville's chest. 

"It does?" As he didn't dare to soil the Cardinal with the dust of the road – particularly after the ordeal he had to undergo at the hands of Aramis and the barber – Treville had taken Athos' advice and made a detour to his own quarters before coming to Richelieu. He had asked his servant to shave him, and put on clean clothes. Remembering that he was expected to join the Governor for dinner later, he had slipped on the dark waistcoat and the blue coat that he wore in his new office. Constance had helped him pick out the ensemble to impress at court. It should work as well in Amiens as it did in Paris.

"It's—" Richelieu looked him up and down and Treville thought he saw his eyes flash — "very handsome."

Treville's smile stopped being rueful. "You think so?" 

Nodding, Richelieu ran his fingers along the seam of his waistcoat. "When you came back—" he paused, looking away briefly. "I hoped you'd stay."

"Of course I would," Treville said softly, capturing Richelieu's fingers just to give his own hands something to do. There was nothing he desired so much as to strip Richelieu and show him exactly how much he wanted to be with him – but he wouldn't. Couldn't. Not unless Richelieu asked him.

"Athos is Captain of the Musketeers now, I take it?" As soon it was released, Richelieu's hand slid under Treville's waistcoat, tugging at his shirt and hiding from any further attempts to interrupt its exploration. Treville couldn't help the way his heart fluttered at the touch, the reminder that Richelieu was alive and he still wanted him.

"He is." Treville studied Richelieu's face to glean his feelings on the matter, but they appeared to be no more clean-cut than Treville's own. "The King needed me more in my new position," he continued. "I believe he hopes I'll be ready to become First Minister one day." He returned his hand to Richelieu's curls, and the Cardinal leant into the touch again. "I'm glad that's not going to happen now."

Although Treville's words had been intended to express his relief at Richelieu's safety, a shadow crossed Richelieu's face. "Jean," he began, "what were you doing in the Spanish Lowlands?"

Treville blinked, but his surprise only lasted for a moment. "I was looking for you."

"You're the King's Minister for War."

"So?"

"You risked your life to—" Richelieu broke off, frowning. "The King needs you."

"He needs _you_ as well." Treville paused, catching his gaze. " _I_ need you." 

"You soft-hearted old fool," Richelieu said fondly.

"You got me," Treville said, praying his smile would get rid of the lump that had appeared in his throat. "That's why Louis needs you back."

Richelieu sighed. "When we arrived here… I regret asking you to leave."

Treville looked away. "I understand why you did it."

"No," Richelieu said. "You don't." Yet despite his protest, his hand stayed where it was, resting on Treville's hip. 

Treville wanted to tell Richelieu that he'd seen it all before, and no scar could mar him in his eyes. But he knew that words alone would not convince the Cardinal. He reached for Richelieu's other hand, the mutilated one, lifting it to his lips with closed eyes as the sight of one of the long, graceful fingers missing tore at his heart. These fingers used to caress his rough skin with the gentle touch of a scholar. 

Richelieu did not pull away. Not when Treville started to kiss his fingers. Not when he kissed the space where a finger should be. Richelieu watched, and trembled. Treville pulled him closer until there was barely any room between them. Pressing Richelieu's hand to his chest, he moved his free hand to the Cardinal's unlaced collar. This was not the moment to show fear, regardless of what he would find beneath.

"May I?"

"Jean—"

Treville could read the conflict in Richelieu's wide eyes, the insecurity, the shame. 

"Let me kiss you," he said. 

Richelieu nodded, holding his breath as Treville pressed his lips to Richelieu's exposed chest. This time Treville did not hold back from kissing the white scars at his collarbone. He didn't need to ask where they came from. He had seen the fork. Making his way up Richelieu's throat with soft, quick kisses, Treville found their twins under his chin and kissed them as well, making Richelieu sigh.

"What was this for?" Treville asked, stroking the pale scars with his fingertips. 

Richelieu looked away. For a moment it looked like he would refuse to answer. 

"Vargas didn't like me talking to the guards."

" _Bastard_." Vargas was lucky that Treville was a man who valued his personal honour – who wouldn't think of depriving his King of his revenge, except in dreams. He squeezed Richelieu's hand gently, the one with four fingers. "And this?"

He felt Richelieu shudder. "When I sent the messages; the cross… Vargas didn't like that either."

Treville kissed his hand again, and the scar the torturer's knife had left behind. Only one scar. Only one finger missing. Treville wanted to remove Vargas' head. 

Releasing Richelieu's fingers, Treville slowly rose to his hands and knees. He met no resistance as he gently pushed the Cardinal onto his back, silently vowing to kiss and caress every bruise, every scar he found. He began by pushing Richelieu's shirt up, finding his stomach covered with fading patches of purple and green. To think that someone had punched him, or kicked him … until he screamed? 

Swallowing his anger, Treville lowered his head, concentrating on the comfort he longed to give, caressing the abused skin with his lips, and eliciting small sighs from the Cardinal. He licked a line to Richelieu's navel with short laps, dipping his tongue in, until the Cardinal gasped – soft, but, _oh_ , the sweetest possible sound – and raked his fingers through the Minister's hair. Treville only regretted that there was not more of it for Richelieu to hold on to.

He licked his way to the hip bone that framed the flat, bruised stomach sharply. As a picky eater with barely any time set aside for food in his daily schedule, Richelieu had always been bony, but he was even leaner now than he had been eight months before. Treville paused to take a deep breath – this was not the time for anger – and kissed that bone. They'd work on this together, if Richelieu wanted.

Continuing his way south, Treville was stopped by another layer of clothes. Running his hands over Richelieu's thighs, he looked up at him, begging with his eyes. Treville's heart bounded as Richelieu nodded wordlessly, allowing hose and stockings to be pulled down. He almost sighed in relief on finding Richelieu's member intact, and kissed its tip in a silent promise, making the Cardinal whimper. _Later._

He encouraged Richelieu to bend his legs, the easier for Treville to nuzzle his inner thighs, to lick the fine scars below his buttocks, nipping at the soft flesh with his teeth. He knew what had left these scars. He could measure the width of the cane by how fine they were, but there were more important things on his mind than revenge.

As he kissed the back of the Cardinal's knee – always such a ticklish, sensitive spot – Richelieu balled his fists in the sheets, whimpering just for him, just for Treville. His Cardinal was back where he belonged, and Treville would allow no scar or bruise to make either of them feel otherwise. 

Finally taking hold of Richelieu's feet, Treville made him lie down flat again, before pulling off his slippers and stockings. The soles were striped with thin, white scars, and his toes… Treville's breath caught in his throat. Now that they were clean Treville could see that the toes were dark with bruising, not with gore. And they all lacked nails. All six of them.

He looked up at Richelieu again. The Cardinal's face was flushed, his breath shallow. 

"And this?" Treville asked, stroking the scars. "When did he do this?"

The flesh looked long healed where the toes had been cut off, but the scars and bruises… Treville felt his throat constrict as he saw Richelieu turn pale. The bruises were too dark to be older than a day.

"Jean."

 _One day_. What pain could they have prevented if Aramis had contacted them a day earlier, or if they had marched on the chateau without preparation? Vargas' men would have driven pins and the wedges under the nails to loosen them. There would have been pliers, ready to tear. Why had he wasted time convincing the musketeers to save Richelieu at all? He should have ridden out on his own, and let them rush after him if they cared. But no, he had waited. He had even tried to gain permission from the King before he left, like a good soldier. While Richelieu…

"Jean, stop."

Treville listened, but hesitated before looking up again. 

Richelieu's expression was guarded. "Come up here," he said. 

Treville obeyed, crawling to the head of the bed on arms and legs as shaky as his confidence. He had made a bad decision. He should have waited for Richelieu to tell him what he wanted. He shouldn't have asked after his scars. He should have slit Vargas's throat once Raveau had let them go and thrown his corpse into a ditch by the road. He should have let the musketeers go to the chateau alone and waited for them to bring Richelieu to Paris when he was ready. He should have ordered them to rescue Richelieu as soon as Aramis had shown them the cross. He should have not have let Vargas go after Rochefort's death. He should never have believed Richelieu was dead. 

"I'm sorry," he breathed as he came face to face with Richelieu, not knowing which of his many sins he should apologise for first. "So sorry."

Richelieu took Treville's face between his hands and pulled him down for a kiss. Licking his lips, he urged him to open his mouth, to kiss back. Treville did. He allowed the Cardinal to direct the pace, to go slow. It was the kind of kiss that, even if it continued for days, would leave Treville wanting more. He couldn't remember a time that anyone but Richelieu had made him feel this starved, and growled when Richelieu pulled away. 

"You see, Minister?" Richelieu said. "Although I appreciate the gesture, there are more important parts of me to kiss than my feet. In your position you need to prioritise better." Richelieu spoke calmly, but Treville could see the unshed tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. He leaned down to rain quick kisses on them, forcing Richelieu to take hold of Treville's face again.

Treville grinned, his heart feeling incredibly light. "I'm still learning," he said, " _Minister._ "

"I have much to teach you." Richelieu smirked. As his heart bounded, Treville wondered whether this was how it was going to be from now on. 

He realised that if anything his new position would increase the number of arguments they faced, but considering they had even made it through the Cardinal's ill-judged attempt on the Queen's life, Treville couldn't imagine any fight they couldn't live through. And they would take all the time in the world to make up – thoroughly. All of this was returned to him now. All this life. All this hope. And once they were working together again… 

Treville did not like to sing his own praises, but King Philip had better enjoy his possessions while he still had them.

He kissed Richelieu's lips again, patiently this time, before pulling back to study the Cardinal's face; flushed, but content. He finally looked relaxed, the caged looks and the guarded expression having been wiped away, as though he knew he was safe. Treville caught his eyes. 

If he could tell Athos, he could tell Richelieu.

"I love you."

For a moment Richelieu was speechless. For a moment the world froze. 

"For once we agree," Richelieu said. Treville blinked. 

"You mean you love yourself? I knew that already."

Richelieu's smirk widened. "And I love the King's foolish Minister for War too."

Treville kissed him again, before Richelieu could notice the tears in his eyes.

"Jean."

Treville looked up, enjoying the relaxed, unguarded expression on Richelieu's face. "Yes?"

"Undress for me."

Treville grinned. Perhaps things would normalise sooner than he had thought.

A sharp rap at the door made them both jump. Treville immediately pulled the curtains shut around the bed.

"Minister Treville?"

"Yes! A moment!" he called, covering his surprise with annoyance. They needed to be more careful. Locking every door and drawing the curtains shut had been a habit he had fallen out of after Richelieu's death. Darkness had been part of the life they shared. Without Richelieu, the shadows that had been warm and protective had become empty again.

"Stay here," he said to Richelieu as he sat up. Even with the curtains drawn, he could see the Cardinal's wide-eyed stare and hear his quickened breathing. The interruption had unsettled him more than Treville had expected. 

Outside the door he found two of Lapierre's guards who immediately bowed their heads. He made sure to take up as much space as possible as he stood in the door, to block their view. 

"What is it?"

"We're ready to take up our posts, sir."

Treville had already forgotten he had ordered a pair of guards. What a terrible idea that had turned out to be. "You didn't need to knock to tell me that," he grumbled, a little more harshly than they deserved. They were only doing what they thought was their job. "The Governor's guest needs a bit of quiet. And privacy, above all."

"We knocked because the Governor sent us to inform the Minister that dinner will be served shortly in the main dining hall." 

The main dining hall meant there would be other guests – very likely the men Treville had come to the city to negotiate with and whose appointments he had missed the day before. It was not a meal Treville could miss. Besides, he had already promised Lapierre he would be there.

"I'll be on my way presently," Treville said, seeing the guards bow before he shut the door on them.

"So, time for your dinner with the Governor?" Richelieu had pulled open the curtains, looking calm again. He'd also put his hose and stockings back on.

"Yes."

"Sadly, I'm not dressed for it."

It struck Treville that Richelieu had to be hungry. They had taken provisions on the road, but it hadn't been much, and Richelieu hadn't shown much appetite. Given their hurry to leave the Spanish Lowlands Treville hadn't had much time to worry about it, but who knew when he had last eaten properly? Judging by how slim he had become, it had been a while. "If the Governor hasn't thought of it himself, I'll see to it that food is sent up to you." 

Richelieu scoffed. "Will it be delivered to my cell on a covered silver tray?"

"What?"

"Forget it." Richelieu looked away, hunting a memory.

"I could stay here," Treville said, feeling anxiety rise were before he had felt his stomach rumble. "We could eat together."

"No." Richelieu put on a stern look, as he slipped back for a moment into his role of First Minister. "The King sent you to Amiens for a reason, _Minister_. You should take care of it."

There were other things Treville would rather take care of, but Richelieu was right of course, as so often. _Damn him._

"I'll return as soon as I can," he said hastily and immediately wanted to kick himself. He was only going to the dining hall, not to war. Richelieu would be able to take care of himself for a couple of hours. He wouldn't disappear as soon as Treville walked out of the room. Taking a deep, calming breath, he continued. "My quarters are down the hall. Don't wait up. If you're tired—"

"I'd like you to come back here regardless," Richelieu interrupted him.

Treville couldn't stop himself smiling. "I will."

After exiting and warning the guards to stay outside, Treville headed to the dining hall, feeling light-headed. As he made his way downstairs, his chief secretary caught up with him. They hadn't spoken since Treville's return, but he found it hard to pay attention to anything he was saying. To learn that the meetings he missed had been rescheduled for the next day did not fill him with excitement. The Cardinal's rescue had not changed the fact that Corbie's provisioning seemed to him a mundane issue compared to what had been done to Richelieu.

"Please be there this time, Minister," Favre continued. 

Treville knew what he would rather be doing. He did not feel particularly guilty about abandoning his staff the day before without explanation. If they could not protect the King's interests in his absence for a day, they weren't worth their salary. That didn't stop Favre from delivering his message with emphatic politeness that in the months they had been working together Treville had come to identify as annoyance. 

"The messieurs make for dreary company, but until we figure out how to replace Corbie's garrison with automatons we need these supplies."

Perhaps Treville felt a _little bit_ guilty. Not enough to make him regret having gone to rescue Richelieu for a moment.

Even as Governor Lapierre introduced him to those of his guests he hadn't met before, Treville's thoughts lingered on the Cardinal; how Richelieu had melted into his embrace in the dungeon, the way he had held Treville's hand as they had faced Raveau's man, or how he had leaned back against him on the horse.

And Treville had thought his concentration had been shot _before_ they rescued him. Even as they finally sat down and the men tried to engage him in small talk, Treville's thoughts returned to the Italian Room and its soft bed in which Richelieu lay all alone, battling the memory of what he'd suffered.

_The fork. The cane. The knife._

At least Athos was there as well. Lapierre had specifically asked the musketeers to join him when they had arrived at the Palais. The others could be excused, but not their Captain. Although a part of him felt for Athos, who deserved a good night's sleep as much as the rest of them, Treville was grateful for his presence. Athos would back him up if he made a mistake out of distraction. Athos would— Treville blinked in wonder — Athos _understood_. The thought was new and incredibly comforting.

He turned his head to catch Athos' attention and together they rolled their eyes at the gathering. 

  


* * *

  
Treville left the dining hall much later than he had expected. Intending to either impress the Minister or ensure he'd stay long enough for all of his potential trading partners to get in a word, Lapierre's cooks had prepared enough courses to make the dinner last well into the evening. And that was before the Governor had broken out the digestif. 

Perhaps it would be wiser to head for his own quarters, as Richelieu was likely asleep, but Treville realised that the Cardinal had been on his mind too much for him to hope to be able to sleep without checking on him. Besides, he had finally been given a key to the Italian Room and meant to deliver it.

The sun had long set by the time Treville returned to Richelieu, and the room was made even darker by the drawn curtains obscuring the windows. The bed curtain, however, had not been drawn shut. Despite the dim light Treville could see Richelieu curled up under the blanket, facing the door. He looked _small_ , knees drawn up as though he was huddling against the cold, despite the cracking fireplace. With a start Treville remembered the brazier in the cell, and how Richelieu had cowered next to it in nothing but a linen gown. It was already November. 

_He used to sleep on his back, unconcerned about how much space he took up._ But then, there had been so few opportunities for them to sleep — actually _sleep_ — next to each other, that Treville was half-amazed he had recognised a pattern at all.

"Armand?" Treville whispered, coming closer. He thought Richelieu looked tense, even in sleep. "Armand?" he repeated, louder this time, before he could stop himself. If Richelieu was sleeping, he should let him have his rest. But he stirred. 

"Yes?" He sounded lucid enough as he slowly blinked at Treville, not as though he had woken from deep sleep. This fact eased Treville's conscience only marginally. 

"Minister. How was your dinner?" Richelieu asked.

"Passable." He would certainly have fared worse without Athos there, but was not prepared to waste another thought on it. "Yours?"

"Perfectly bland," Richelieu said. He did not sound disappointed. 

"Are you cold?" Treville asked. 

"No," Richelieu seemed confused about what might have given him the impression. He smiled faintly. "I could always be warmer."

"Is that an invitation, your Eminence?" Treville tried to sound light-hearted despite his worry.

Richelieu hesitated for but a moment. "What is the Governor going to say if you spent the night?"

Treville smiled. "Lapierre knows you're injured. The guards are forbidden from coming in, but someone has to take care the patient has everything he needs – such as a warm bed."

"And so the Minister for War is going to watch over the injured mystery guest himself?"

"Couldn't ask a musketeer. They're almost asleep on their feet." They also might have resigned their commissions if Treville asked them to stand guard in the Cardinal's bedroom at night and fulfil his every demand.

Richelieu's only reply was to lift the covers for him. Treville could feel Richelieu watching him as he removed his shoes, waistcoat and coat, and although he did not intent to take off anything else that night, this time he made sure the door was locked before he climbed into bed next to him. 

They had both had a trying day after an extremely long night.

Treville breathed in deeply as he pulled Richelieu close, comforted by the feeling of a familiar body pressed against him, hoping that Richelieu felt the same. He couldn't begin to describe how it made him feel, after all these months of thinking he had lost it forever. At least Richelieu wasn't curled up alone anymore. Treville would make him feel warm in his bed again. He had to.

"Perhaps you're the one who's cold," Richelieu remarked, wrapping his long limbs around him.

"No," Treville said. "But I can always be warmer." 

As Richelieu kissed him, Treville could feel him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of delay there is finally some comfort. \o/


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Vargas could call Richelieu a monster, a blasphemer, a dog even, but only Treville knew what he really was._

_Richelieu stood once more on the snowed-in shores of the frozen lake, but the frost did not bite his bleeding feet. He walked past the frozen corpses, leaving behind his toes, until a great black horse appeared, blowing hot breath like steam from its nostrils. It warmed his legs as he mounted it, burying his stiff fingers in its soft mane. It led him out of the forest, up the slope of a hill that rose from the lake of ice, overlooking a city. It was too small to be Mount Purgatory, there was no purifying fire at its top, and his guide was not a fair maiden, and yet it led him home._

_Even though there was no hill overlooking the French capital like this, Richelieu knew that the city below him was Paris. He knew there was no road leading from a hill to his home, and yet the horse turned its head down the road, carrying Richelieu straight to the Palais Cardinal. It looked unchanged as they entered through the gardens and Richelieu dismounted. His flowerbeds were blooming and looked well cared for, although there were no gardeners in sight. When Richelieu turned around, the horse had vanished. As he walked alone through empty hallways, from the perpetual building site in the east wing to the stately audience hall, he encountered no one. He opened every door and was greeted by spotless, empty rooms, until he finally reached his bedroom. There he found his deathbed, its covers upset, as though it waited for him to lie down again._

Richelieu blinked as he awoke, trying to make out his surroundings. What he saw made his heart leap into his throat. He'd rather have dreamt about the demon again, if it spared him from dreaming that he was home. There was very little light, but it was enough for Richelieu realise that he still wasn't back at his Palais. The bed was as unfamiliar to him as the fireplace and the rest of the furniture. 

He thought he could hear wind and rain pelting the windows. 

If he were less weary, he would have sobbed. Was this another tower cell in which he was to comfortably waste away until Vargas decided it was time to cut off more of his fingers or toes? Richelieu curled up under the blanket – soft and warm, _of course_. Vargas didn't want him to freeze – concentrating on breathing calmly, and on listening. Someone else was in bed with him, breathing softly; sleeping.

As Richelieu slowly turned over, memories of the previous day returned to him. Memories of his rescue. The muscles of his back and legs still ached from a day spent in the saddle. He wasn't home yet, but he might as well have been. 

Treville was sleeping next to him on his side, facing him. His Captain. No – Minister for War now. That would take some getting used to. Richelieu imagined Treville running his office like a garrison. In his mind, it worked frightfully well.

They had forgotten to pull the bed curtains shut before going to sleep, but Richelieu made no move to rectify this fact, grateful for every bit of light that allowed him to study Treville's face. His new haircut, the thick beard, the deep lines around his mouth – some of them new. Richelieu traced these lines with his fingertips.

They could be so rough with each other. Harsh words, harsh gestures. All part of the dance.

Yet still Treville had ridden day and night to save him. Not the First Minister – he could have left that to someone else – _him_.

Vargas could call Richelieu a monster, a blasphemer, a dog even, but only Treville knew what he really was. Vargas thought he knew of his sins, but he hadn't lived with them, shared them or suffered for them the way Treville had. Vargas didn't know how they weighed on Richelieu's soul. Treville did. And Treville called him _love_.

Richelieu shivered in the dark and sighed. His fingers followed the lines of Treville's neck, down his collar bone. He paused as Treville stirred in his sleep.

"Jean?" Richelieu whispered. Treville slept on, breathing softly.

 _Treville deserved his rest_. But out there was a strange room, in a strange city – prison to his torturer – that sat right on the border between France and Spanish-controlled territory. Out there, the fireplace cracked ominously. The rain sounded as though it ran off the windows in sheets. With every passing moment the shadows in the dark corners of the room, untouched by the firelight, seemed to grow larger. Richelieu thought he could hear the guards pacing in the corridor. 

Only Treville was familiar. 

Closing his eyes, he shuffled closer, until he could feel Treville's breath on his skin. It wasn't enough. 

Richelieu splayed a hand across Treville's sternum, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin. His other hand found its way under Treville's shirt, moving from his hip to his stomach and along his chest, retracing every inch of his skin; stopping at every new scar. Would there be fewer now that Treville was a Minister? Probably not, if his excursion into enemy territory was anything to judge their future by. Treville was too old to stop being a musketeer. 

_I have as many scars now._

Resting his head in the crook of Treville's neck, Richelieu listened to his heartbeat until it drowned out the fire and the rain – safe in the knowledge that a part of Treville would always remain the soldier he had met so many years ago. Even as a Minister, he would always remain _his_ Captain. 

He lay still, feeling Treville's skin under his fingertips, and knew that he was free. So long as Treville was with him, Richelieu knew there were no collars, no whips and no knives.

As he let go of a shuddering breath, Richelieu realised that the rhythm of Treville's breathing had changed. He was awake. 

"Can't sleep?" Treville asked, lifting a hand to caress his lover's neck. It made Richelieu shiver. _This_ ; this was what he'd been missing. Treville's large, calloused hands on his skin – something so rough touching him so softly. Despite the touches they had exchanged during the day, his skin still prickled at the joy of being caressed. He had gone so long without.

"Armand?"

Richelieu didn't want to answer. He wanted to forget his nightmares, not to detail each of them to Treville. "Go back to sleep." 

"I don't think I can before you do," Treville replied. Richelieu sighed quietly as Treville's fingers buried themselves in his hair. His touch was so blessedly different from Vargas'.

"Yes, you can," Richelieu said, although the pleasant sensations made it hard to argue. "You're a soldier. You're used to sleeping through anything apart from musket fire." He had seen enough evidence of that throughout the years. 

"There are exceptions. Besides, I am a Minister now."

 _Of course Treville had to be stubborn_. Yet, Richelieu couldn't deny he'd hoped Treville would wake up. He had simply failed to envision what exactly he wanted him to do once he was awake. One of Treville's hands abandoned Richelieu's hair to pull him closer. Richelieu considered it a start.

Resuming his exploration of Treville's body, he ran his hand over Treville's hip, up his waist, caressing his side. He stopped upon finding a scar that hadn't been there eight months before. It was thin and smooth like others he'd sustained from surgical incisions in the past. 

_"If it is true that the shot injured the Captain's lungs…"_

"What is it?" Treville asked. 

Richelieu breathed in deeply, nuzzling Treville's chest, taking in his familiar scent. He was really here. Alive and well. 

_Whole._

Unlike Richelieu.

"They told me Rochefort had you shot."

He could feel Treville inhale sharply. "Who told you about Rochefort? Vargas?" Treville caressed the nape of Richelieu's neck. "As you can see, I recovered."

Recovered enough to capture Vargas in his own castle. Richelieu smiled. "He told me later he'd spoken to you. In Paris." He couldn't even recall the details. They hadn't seemed important compared to the news that Treville was alive.

"I'm sorry. We should've kept him a prisoner, but the King wanted to send Philip a message. We didn't know—" Treville faltered. " _I_ believed you were dead."

Richelieu touched his face softly. He could still remember the day he had feared Treville had been killed. He couldn't imagine how he would have fared in the dungeon without the knowledge that his death was a lie. 

"Vargas staged a convincing show," Richelieu said quietly. "I believed it myself until I awoke in his dungeon." It seemed so long ago now. "I'm told I was buried." Buried in holy ground – not beneath a profane castle. 

"They put a great marble statue on your tomb. It's—" Treville broke off, frowning.

"What?"

"I can show you when we're back in Paris."

Richelieu wasn't sure if he was so keen on seeing his tomb. The Minister was curious to see how Paris had chosen to remember him, but the man shied from this reminder of his mortality. He'd had enough of that during the last eight months.

"How did Rochefort die?"

"The musketeers killed him. D'Artagnan ran him through."

Richelieu smiled as he stroked his fingers over Treville's scar. A fitting end. 

"So there _are_ uses for them sometimes." 

Treville playfully pulled his hair. "They're a great help to me."

Richelieu knew. Of course he knew. Seeing Treville's favourite men walk into his cell had been like a particularly ironic dream. Once he had even offered d'Artagnan a position in his own guard regiment, and meant it. Of course, he could never let Treville know he thought that one or two of his rabble were actually promising soldiers, or he'd never hear the end of it.

"I still have people to meet here," Treville said after a pause, "but I can order the musketeers to escort you to Paris tomorrow."

"No," Richelieu said quickly. "There's no need. I don't feel like travelling again just yet." Paris was only a few hours away, but what was he supposed to do there, when Treville was here and the King was in Corbie? "There won't even be anyone at my Palais, will there?"

His Palais had been a powerful, well-oiled machine. Now he was left with the spare parts. It would take time to rebuild, even if his staff were willing to come back into his employ. Raising an entirely new staff would be a nightmare. 

Perhaps he should consider early retirement.

"Your Palais—" Treville began hesitantly. "—the King took possession of it. He intended to give it to his son one day, but I'm sure he'll return it to you once you are back at Court."

So Richelieu wouldn't find it untouched. _Well._ He hadn't liked that dream anyway.

"I presume he'll consider giving me the Palais I built with my own funds a gift."

"Sounds like him."

Richelieu sighed. "And my guards?"

"Louis kept them on to police the city after your death. As war broke out they were disbanded and their numbers distributed among other regiments. I'm sorry."

_You will lose everything you love most dearly. That is the arrow that exile's bow will fire._ 1

Not _everything._ Richelieu looked up at Treville, studying the lines of worry in his face.

"My _death_ put many things in uproar, it appears."

"It's not your fault. It's Vargas' fault."

"And that of his allies." Richelieu thought of the physician who had betrayed him, who had bled him, tortured him, for nothing; who had fed him poison instead of medicine. The physician who was now safe to live out his days in comfort. Once he was back in charge of his agents, if Vargas had spoken the truth about the mansion in Flanders, Richelieu would leave no stone unturned until the man was found.

 _And then?_ What good would it do him to kill a man stranded in a strange country no less afflicted by war than the rest of the continent? The physician would start to jump at every shadow once he heard of the Cardinal's escape and Vargas' imprisonment. It would be a different kind of punishment, but Richelieu didn't feel vindicated at the thought; only tired. He'd left behind more in Purgatory than a finger.

"The King's army is still at Corbie," Treville mumbled into his hair. "We could raze that chateau to the ground in a day."

"No!" Richelieu surprised himself with his own vehemence. "Raveau is unimportant. He is a pawn, not a player." There was nothing to be gained from punishing servants.

"You don't want revenge?"

Richelieu hesitated. _Vargas was no pawn_. He'd ordered kidnappings, murder, torture. All for the sake of his country. 

_"You know the tricks, Cardinal."_

"I want to see Vargas dragged before the King," Richelieu said. "I want to see him punished. I want the world to know we have him. Spain won't be able to keep his spy-network running with the spider captured. That will be my revenge." 

Treville growled. "I can't say I feel as merciful as you." 

"Whether or not it is a mercy depends on what the King decides to do to him." Vargas was too important to let emotions rule over his punishment. Whatever Vargas' fate, it would have political consequences that Richelieu had to try and ensure Louis understood.

"He played his games knowing what the price could be." As had Cluzet. As had Adele. As had Richelieu. He raised an involuntary hand to his neck, before he remembered the collar was gone. He took a deep breath. 

Leaving Vargas' punishment to the King was just another sacrifice he had to make. "And he will pay. Whatever the King decides, it will be just."

If Louis didn't execute the spymaster, he would likely be imprisoned for the rest of his life. Like Cluzet. A cruel mercy. Even knowing what Vargas was and what he had done, Richelieu couldn't help but shiver. Treville pulled him close, caressed his side, running his hand over Richelieu's waist and hip, dipping underneath his shirt.

Richelieu dreaded the first night he'd spend alone.

When Treville's hand moved towards his back Richelieu jumped. Treville pulled the offending hand away before Richelieu could tell him to leave it.

"I'm sorry. Is there something else I should know?"

"Just scars," Richelieu said. Treville didn't know yet. He hadn't seen his back yet. 

"What kind of scars?"

Richelieu hadn't wanted to talk about his dreams and he didn't want to recall the waking nightmares either. But the only way to stop Treville from knowing was if he forbade him from touching him again. Richelieu wanted that even less.

"Flogging."

He could feel Treville taking a deep breath. "If Louis won't kill him, I will."

As Treville cupped his face, Richelieu could feel the metal of his ring cool against his cheek. It was the ring that designated his ministerial office. The finger that had carried Richelieu's own ring of office had been hacked off three months ago. He had barely felt it. Only as he had seen it lie there before him on the table had he screamed. 

He clasped Treville's hand in his own.

The Minister in him should have argued that Vargas could still be valuable. The Cardinal should have warned Treville to leave the punishment to the King as the Lord's appointed judge. But Richelieu couldn't even convince himself.

He would bring Vargas before his King. No one could expect him to defend his torturer beyond that. 

"Do the scars hurt?" Treville asked.

"No." _Just the memory of being stripped – of being chained to a wall, of legs shaking like a new-born foal's. The bite of knotted tails._

"No, you merely surprised me." Although he tried to push the memory away, Richelieu realised he wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon.

"I'm sorry."

"I'd rather you continued," Richelieu said, returning Treville's hand to his hip. "Talk to me for a while."

  


* * *

  
Richelieu awoke as a ray of sunshine snuck in between the curtains. The fire had died down during the night, but he was warm. Treville had slung an arm around his waist and Richelieu could feel his breath tickle the back of his neck. There had been more dreams that night that woke him, but he remembered none of them. Every time he had fallen back asleep with his back against Treville's chest.

To think that the night before he had been in Vargas' dungeon. He was no longer the person who cowered on the floor of a cell and tied his sanity to a piece of charcoal. He was lying in a soft bed with Treville. If he wanted to, he could ask the Governor where the prisoner was being held and watch Vargas rot away in a tower. It hardly seemed real.

Behind him, Treville stirred and began to nuzzle his neck. _This_ was real. Richelieu leaned back and enjoyed the feeling of Treville's hands roaming across his chest and the nipping of his teeth at the nape of his neck. He could forget his scars as Treville held him.

But as much as they would have liked, they couldn't stay in bed and catch up. The tailor was set to arrive after breakfast and Treville had already complained about the amount of work he had to do.

As Treville left the bed to dress, Richelieu paused to watch him, taking in the tight fit of his waistcoat, the fitted blue cloak that matched his eyes, the way the sash accentuated his waist. It was such a dramatic change from the bulky, brown uniform coats he used to wear. Whoever took care of Treville's wardrobe had done Richelieu a great favour. He watched him leave with great reluctance, right before breakfast arrived. 

He jumped at the sound of a knock, expecting for a moment to see Vargas' guards, come to take his slippers. But the male servant carrying his dishes entered without an escort. The cool broth he served was spiced just right and the cup of wine blessedly dry. Richelieu felt tempted to ask for the bottle, relishing in the thought that he _could_. 

The tailor arrived next. Dressing in front of a stranger and standing still as the man tugged at his clothes required all his self-control. The clothes provided Richelieu with the freedom to be seen in polite society again, but he could not help sighing in relief once Monsieur Ferou was finally satisfied with their fit. After the tailor had gone, Richelieu spent a long moment sitting on the bed, running his fingers over them. Monsieur Ferou had tailored the hose and waistcoat to fit snugly, as was the current fashion, but to Richelieu they felt as strange as their Spanish counterparts. 

At least they were _French_ gentleman's clothes. _His_ clothes now, for as long as _he_ deemed he should have them. And unlike anything Vargas had given him, they included pieces meant to be worn outside – a coat, a hat and gloves – _five-fingered gloves_. 

Richelieu shut his eyes briefly. Perhaps they would fool someone. 

As he got up, he decided to make use of his new freedom by seeking out Treville in his quarters. He took a deep breath before opening the door, and stepped outside, heart pounding. No one ordered him to stop. No one reached to grab him. The guards barely even looked at him as he walked down the corridor.

He found Treville at his desk, in the company of a stout, bald man, dressed in finery that wouldn't be out of place at Court. Richelieu began to feel more appreciative of Ferou's work instantly. The man froze as he looked at Richelieu, evidentially recognising the famous Cardinal despite his layman's clothes. 

A smile spread across Treville's face as he stood up to introduce them. "Your Eminence, this is Monsieur Eugéne de Favre, my chief secretary. Favre, this is Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-duc de Richelieu. He returned to France with us yesterday."

The secretary bowed deeply, but not without shooting Treville a pointed look first. It was invigorating to be bowed to again. 

"Your Eminence, I'm honoured," Favre said, before turning back to Treville. "So you raised the dead. Admittedly, that _is_ going to make the King overlook our continued dallying here for a day."

Treville's smile widened. "You may leave us now." 

Favre bowed again and the door closed behind him before Richelieu had even registered his leaving. Despite his size, the man moved like a panther. 

"How did you find this man?"

"Through Porthos," Treville said, walking around the desk. Richelieu paused for a moment to watch him, once again taken by the way the sash hugged Treville's waist. "I'm told Favre drank him under the table once."2

Richelieu raised an eyebrow at him, not entirely sure whether he was being serious.

"I see Monsieur Ferou delivered your clothes." Treville gave Richelieu's attire an approving look. Perhaps the clothes weren't as strange as they felt if they caused Treville to look at him like that. 

"What brings you here?"

Richelieu blinked. What else was he to do but see Treville? "Do you expect me to sit in that room all day until you deign to grace me with your presence?" He had no interest in inspecting the sights of Amiens, beautiful as they were. 

_He could ask for paper and ink to write. Or a piece of coal._ Richelieu pushed the thought to the back of his mind. 

"I'm curious to see Minister Treville at work."

Treville pursed his lips as he took a moment to consider the Cardinal's proposal. "I'm meeting with a number of gentlemen who have offered to procure and transport goods for Corbie – paid for by the Crown, of course."

"Riveting," Richelieu said. _Particularly compared to eight months in a cell._ "Are we leaving now?"

"We will," said Treville, picking up his sword belt. "But first, I ought to introduce you to our host, unless you have any misgivings."

"No," Richelieu lied, following Treville out of the office. His arrival at the Palais had been anything but dignified, but there was only one way to wipe that image from the Governor's memory. "It should be interesting to meet him properly this time."

Lapierre received them his study, looking delighted. The glint in his eyes at the prospect of learning his guest's identity betrayed his greed for Court gossip. It dimmed as soon as he got a good look at Richelieu, and disappeared entirely when Treville said his name.

The Governor was so eager to bow once he realised who stood before him, that he almost ended up on his knees. This kind of zeal would be flattering if it didn't usually hint at a conscience guilty of prior disrespect. As he recalled the Governor's curiosity at their arrival the day before, Richelieu suspected that Lapierre had used the barber and the tailor to spy on him. A high price for being made presentable. 

Richelieu felt anger colour his cheeks. It was preferable to shame. 

"Since you are so eager to pay your respects like the loyal patriot you are," he said calmly, "surely you will do me the favour of supporting Minister Treville's endeavours at every opportunity?"

The Governor's eyes widened. "Of course!"

"I'm delighted to hear it. I'd be distraught if the King required my first act in office to be the selection of a new Governor of Amiens, when he has such a loyal servant in you." Due to the might of its fortress and its flowing economy Amiens was a highly sought after holding.

"Of course, your Eminence." The Governor bowed again. He was starting to sweat, but showed no resistance to being threatened in his own seat of power.

 _And now for the final touch, to prevent shock from growing into resentment._ "I enjoyed the wine this morning. We could discuss more pleasant matters over a bottle at dinner tonight."

"I'd be honoured if your Eminence would accept a crate of it as a gift."

Richelieu smiled. "I accept." _Let him believe he can bribe the great Cardinal with wine._

All he had needed for a commanding presence to return to him had been to remind Lapierre of his duty. He hadn't realised how much he had missed this kind of power. But once they had left the Governor to his own devices, Richelieu noticed that Treville looked surly. _Were they not to have a single day of peace?_

"What is it?"

Treville didn't meet his eyes. "I thought you were going to watch, not do my work for me."

Richelieu stared at him in disbelief. "If you don't need my expertise, I'll keep out of the matter, but I was under the impression that things weren't going well for you." He scoffed. "Besides, that man needed to be reminded of his place. You know he is guilty of _something_." 

"I know." Treville briefly took his hand. Richelieu squeezed back, grateful for the familiar gesture. He didn't yet have the strength to pretend it didn't lessen his sense of indignation; or that he didn't miss the touch as soon as it was gone.

Treville turned to him with a sigh, casting a look around to ensure that they were alone. "Look. This is what I am now. The Musketeers have a new Captain. I'm a Minister. The King is relying on me to handle this on my own."

As Treville looked at him so earnestly, Richelieu couldn't help but think that the person Treville needed to convince most was himself. 

"I know you could sort this out all on your own," Treville continued. "Even without the King confirming you in office. Even while _dead_ —"

"Can I? Still?"

Treville gaped at him. Richelieu watched understanding dawn in his eyes. The great Cardinal Treville remembered had been reduced to rags, begging compassion from guardsmen and servant girls.

"Of course you can!" he exclaimed, forgetting where they were for a moment. As he continued, red-faced, he remembered to lower his voice. "You are Cardinal Richelieu. You sent Marie de Medici into exile, twice. Did you see Lapierre? I thought any moment he would sink to his knees and start to grovel."

Few words were as suited to warm Richelieu's heart as efficiently as these. "It was a welcome reminder," he said sweetly. "Show me then, what Minister Treville can do."

Treville smiled ruefully. "If you see me making a fool of myself, don't hold back."

"I never do."

* * *

  


Richelieu had convinced Treville that he was fit to travel on horseback. If pressed, he might have admitted that he had refused the carriage out of nothing more than a need to prove that he could, but, fortunately, Treville didn't press. Favre had pointed out that a carriage would be more in keeping with the style expected from a Minister traveling in his King's service, right before he had suggested that Treville was no ordinary Minister and he'd do well to remind his business partners of that fact. 

They met with Monsieur Grantaire first, the man who proposed to ship grain to Corbie down the Somme for a fantastical sum. Only as the three of them dismounted in Grantaire's courtyard did Richelieu regret their mode of transportation. His legs and back felt stiff, not yet fully recovered from their nocturnal ride, and the slippers he wore were unfit to protect his clothes from the mud of the street whirled up by his horse. As they walked up to the entrance, the state of his stockings made him grateful he had asked Treville to refrain from introducing him.

Grantaire invited the Minister and his companions for a light late morning meal and a glass of wine. Despite the great sums he expected to be paid, he refrained from talking about money over the dinner table. Instead he made sure to proudly inform his guests of his personal connections to important men in Paris. 

Richelieu had to bite his tongue to keep from calling him out. It quickly became obvious that his intervention was not needed.

"Monsieur Guilbert you say?" Treville said in a patient tone he usually expressly reserved for the King's favourites. "He contracted a lot of work for the musketeers' garrison while I was Captain. Perhaps you should ask _him_ to organise the transportation of your grain." 

Grantaire's expression froze.

"I'm convinced Monsieur Guilbert will be grateful for this opportunity to show his gratitude for all the work the King's own regiment brought him, and may continue to bring him in the future." Treville looked at Grantaire sharply. "God willing."

Richelieu lifted his glass and turned his face away to hide his smile, and across the room he could see Favre do the same. Grantaire agreed to deliver the grain on Treville's terms before noon.

"It appears this didn't go as badly as you expected," Richelieu said as they left the hotel. "It turns out you are passable at negotiating after all."

Treville stopped to cock an eyebrow at him, one hand on his sword, sunlight catching his eye. "Why do I feel like you complementing my negotiating skills should make me worry about my soul?"

Richelieu would have mentioned that they had done other things that the church claimed the Lord frowned on worse, but he had to remind himself that they weren't alone; that Favre was only a step behind them.

"The first few days that I was here I had trouble listening," Treville continued. "I find it easier to concentrate now that _other_ matters have been concluded."

No need to ask what these other matters were. Richelieu should warn Treville that letting himself be distracted from his work by his emotions was dangerous for the whole country. Yet, after the treatment Vargas subjected him to, Treville's continued professions of affection couldn't fail to move him.

"Where to next?" he asked.

"To the fortress. Corbie still needs a fresh garrison." Treville paused. "I'd like to conduct that talk with your input, your Eminence."

Richelieu smiled. "I'm looking forward to working with you more closely, Minister."

  


* * *

  


As success followed them from negotiation to negotiation, the rest of the day ended up being more productive than all the days Treville had spent in Amiens combined. To Richelieu, who was no longer used to spending so much of his day on his feet, it had been as stimulating as exhausting. Putting the entitled owners of lands and shipping companies back in their place had done wonders to drive away the tension of the previous day. 

They returned to the Italian Room in a celebratory mood, after a relaxed dinner with the Governor during which Richelieu had eaten what he wanted and asked for the driest wine in Lapierre's cellar.

The fact that he had still been in Vargas' dungeon two days ago appeared unreal to him. It seemed so far away now that he was in France, drinking the wine he wanted and conducting negotiations for the King. Most important of all, he had Treville all to himself.

Richelieu had enjoyed watching him as he had reminded their opposites of their duty to King and Country; confident, powerful and commanding. He couldn't take his eyes of him as Treville locked the door and made his way over to one of the chairs, his cheeks flushed red from wine and high spirits. The privacy that two men were allowed to have alone was one of the few things that ever worked in their favour. No unmarried women could ever have it, and they were honour bound to make the most of it. 

Following Treville across the room, Richelieu tried to gauge whether the chair could take their combined weight without breaking apart.

"I should return to my office for a moment," Treville said, making Richelieu stop dead in his tracks. 

"No." _It wasn't fair._ Before, it had been Richelieu who had found it hard to pry himself from his desk. Never had he imagined that being made Minister would have a similar effect on Treville. It made Richelieu fear for the time they would both be back in office. 

"You made these men agree to your terms," Richelieu continued, placing his hands on Treville's shoulders. "They can wait."

Treville smiled up at him. "That's not what I meant. I realised I haven't updated the King on our progress since we rode to the chateau. He needs to know you're safe."

Richelieu paused. He hadn't thought much about the King during his captivity, mainly because doing so had led to nothing but worry as none of the news Vargas had shared with him had been good. While writing to Louis was important, he certainly wasn't the mood for it now.

"You should," he said, deciding to risk the chair. Half sitting in Treville's lap, he leaned across to kiss him. "Later." 

The chair creaked as Treville pulled him close, but didn't give way. "Later," Treville agreed in the moment before Richelieu descended upon him again, parting his lips with his tongue, dictating the pace. It was exhilarating to be able to command attention from Treville in that way again. After all that had transpired, despite the nightmares and the scars, Treville still wanted him – and Richelieu wanted him back; his loyal, confident, powerful Minister.

Standing, Richelieu pulled Treville to his feet, towards the bed. 

"Much later," he said.

  


* * *

  


1 Dante's _Divine Comedy_ , Paradiso, Canto XVII. A soul in Paradise foretells the consequences of Dante's exile from Florence.

2 Actually, their contest ended in a tie. Athos raised an eyebrow.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After a day's worth of negotiations, Treville had foolishly hoped to be able to catch up on his sleep. He should have known better. He should have told the Governor to keep the fine spirits locked away and not tempt his guests to indulge, for surely something had to come up at night to balance out their good luck._

Shouting and knocking woke them at night. Treville clung to Richelieu in the darkness for a moment before he recognised Athos' voice. 

"Minister Treville!" 

He cursed silently as Richelieu blinked at him in confusion. "I'll see what he wants."

"Minister!"

"A moment, please!" Treville yelled. He used the lamp on the nightstand to light as many candles as necessary to find and put on his clothes. He and Richelieu had tumbled into bed naked as the Lord had made them, so it took him a while to find enough clothes before he could open the door without a scandal. 

Just in case, he handed Richelieu a shift. The concerned look the Cardinal shot him, before he pulled the bed curtains shut, perfectly matched the growing uneasiness in Treville's stomach as he went to unlock the door. Outside he was confronted by Athos. The Captain of the King's Musketeers was in uniform, but his hair looked tousled and his jacket was unbuttoned.

"What's this about?" Treville snapped.

"My apologies, Minister," Athos began, "I would have woken you more discreetly, but the door was locked, and you didn't respond to my previous knocks." 

Of course he hadn't. After a day's worth of negotiations, Treville had foolishly hoped to be able to catch up on his sleep. He should have known better. He should have told the Governor to keep the fine spirits locked away and not tempt his guests to indulge, for surely _something_ had to come up at night to balance out their good luck. 

"What is it?" Treville could feel himself go numb in preparation for the answer so he wouldn't feel tempted to shout. The last time Athos had dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night the King had been abducted by slavers. At least there was little chance of that in Corbie where the King was still surrounded by his army, and attended day and night by his favourites and advisors. Unless he had snuck away for some reason. Treville wondered whether even Louis knew what was going on in his head at times. 

"Governor Lapierre insists on seeing us. He wouldn't give any details, but something appears to be amiss with our prisoner."

Treville pulled the door shut behind him. He stared at Athos, speechless.

"I'm sorry, that's all I know."

"Where is Lapierre?"

"Waiting for us in his study. The others are already down there."

Treville felt his head spin. Whatever Lapierre was about to tell them, if he demanded the presence of all four musketeers and the Minister, it was bound to be bad news. _As if there could be any good news concerning Vargas that didn't involve his head on a spike._

"Give me a moment," Treville said. He felt numb as he retreated back into the Italian Room. Perhaps he hadn't woken yet. Perhaps he was dreaming.

"What is it?", Richelieu asked, sitting up in bed. He sounded calm enough, but his face spoke a different language. Even in the half-light of the candles he seemed pale. Treville had hoped not to see that guarded expression again so soon.  
"Vargas?"

Treville hesitated. Richelieu must have heard his first exchange with Athos. He didn't want to upset him further, but even if he hadn't overheard anything Treville had to tell him the truth. Just in case things came to the worst. 

"Yes." 

"What happened?"

"That's what I intend to ask the Governor." Treville doubted that Lapierre would have dragged him out of bed for the news that their prisoner had done them the kindness of strangling himself with his own bedsheets.

Richelieu must have come to the same conclusion. He threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed as if to get up.

"No," Treville said, putting a hand on Richelieu's knee. "Stay here." He had no particular desire to part from him, but if they were about to head to the tower, there was no need for Richelieu to come along and get more worked up – or to expose himself by leaving the Palais.

"The Governor specifically asked for the musketeers and myself," Treville said as Richelieu looked about to protest. "Lapierre's men will remain on guard and lock the door. They have the only other key. I'll come back once I know more." 

Richelieu didn't look too happy about the arrangement, but conceded. "Be quick, or I'll have to come looking for you."

At that moment they heard Athos knock again. "Minister, please."

Treville shot a dark look towards the door, before girding his sword. He picked up one of his pistols from the nightstand, leaving the other. He could feel Richelieu's eye on him as he unsheathed his dagger and put it next to the gun on the table. 

"Keep these. The pistol is loaded." A paper cartouche containing powder and ball followed the dagger. "In case you need them." 

Richelieu had prepared for a military career before unexpectedly being forced to take up theology to uphold his family's claim on the see of Luçon, and carried arms every time he went to war as First Minister. He knew how to use a pistol, but Treville would rather he didn't have to. He wished he could tell Richelieu that he was safe, that he needn't worry about Vargas or anyone else ever again, but it would be a lie.

Instead, Treville touched his face, made Richelieu look at him, and kissed him, long, deep, eyes closed. Richelieu nipped his lip with his teeth as he pulled away, as though to tell Treville that they had made it this far; they would continue to make it. 

Treville didn't look back as he finally joined Athos outside. The corridors were deserted as they made their way to the Governor's study. Although the absence of servants was due to the late hour, it heightened Treville's sense of foreboding. 

The Governor looked as disturbed as Treville had feared as they reached him. He was surrounded by the rest of the musketeers, whose dark faces were a testament to how tired they had grown of his secretiveness.

Lapierre attempted a disarming smile as they entered, but Treville was not interested in politeness anymore. He needed answers.

"Tell me what this is about now, Governor." Treville knew that it was impossible to keep his tone neutral after the way he had left Richelieu, so he didn't even try. "I have very little patience left where this prisoner is concerned."

Lapierre's face fell. "I hoped I wouldn't have to inform you before we brought the situation under control, but–" The Governor wrung his hands and Treville could feel his heart sink. "It appears that your prisoner escaped."

The fact that Treville had expected this response did not stop it from stinging. He closed his eyes. What was done, was done. He needed to keep a clear head to fix it. "How," he said haltingly, "could this happen?"

"He must have had help. A man probably infiltrated the kitchen staff and meddled with the guard's food and drink. Many of them are showing signs of poisoning."

Meaning they had been busy emptying their bowls while Vargas had been freed. 

Athos looked to Aramis. "Gutiérrez?"

"Possibly." Aramis shrugged. The gesture seemed horribly casual considering the circumstances. "I wasn't told of any other agents in the city but that doesn't mean there aren't any."

Treville turned back to the Governor. "My men gave you a description of an enemy agent. Did you not find this man?"

"No. I'm deeply sorry – Amiens is a large city."

Treville rubbed his eyes in frustration. He should have had his own men guard Vargas. Even though they had been tired. Even though they had deserved their rest. 

"When did this break-out occur?"

"The guards noticed it a couple of hours ago."

"HOURS?" All of Treville's resolutions to stay calm flew out of the window. "The prisoner has been at large for _hours_?"

"Minister." Athos put a calming hand on Treville's shoulder and Treville let him take over the talking while he paced. _Hours!_ How would they find him now?

"Why didn't you tell us before?", Athos asked.

"We had been hoping to control the situation before informing you," Lapierre said quickly. Drops of sweat had started to form on his brow.

"You were wrong!" Treville turned around, marching up to the Governor in quick, long strides. 

Lapierre flinched. 

"You were told that this man was important to the King. You should have come to me directly!" 

But Lapierre hadn't. Because he had seen no need to upset the King's favourites unduly. No need to show oneself a fool in front of possible patrons. Treville had no doubt that if the Governor's men had managed to recapture Vargas, they wouldn't have heard a word about the incident from Lapierre. 

Treville's eyes flashed. Richelieu's life had been in danger and he hadn't known about it. They had slept for hours, peacefully unaware of Vargas' escape.

Treville took another step towards Lapierre, but the musketeers stopped him. 

"There's no helping it," Athos said," we have to organise a search."

"The escape happened after nightfall, once the city gates had already been closed," Lapierre said. "They will still be in Amiens. The city watch is combing the city, and my own men have joined them." 

That, at least, was something. Although considering the size of the city, Treville didn't entertain much hope that they would be able to find Vargas or his accomplice. Particularly if there were more of Vargas' agents around to hide them.

"We've also send word to the fortress," Lapierre continued and Treville found himself nodding along hopelessly, until a thought struck him.

"You said your guards have joined the men searching the city." 

"Yes," Lapierre said, "apart from my personal guards outside these rooms and the ones you requested upstairs."

Treville's mouth fell open in disbelief. The musketeers mirrored him. 

Treville fought for words for a moment, but there were none. And there was no time. He didn't wait to see if any of the musketeers would try to explain. He turned on his heels and ran out of the study, down the long hallways, rushing to the nearest set of stairs that would take him up to the Italian Room.

He didn't reach it before the first gunshot echoed through the building, or before the second.

  


* * *

  


The moment he became aware of sounds outside the door, Richelieu reached under his pillow to reassure himself that the dagger was still there. Were the guards being relieved? Had Treville already returned?

No. It couldn't be. There were no voices to be heard, just… scraping.

Richelieu sat up.

A key turned in the lock, clicked. Treville didn't enter. The guards did, in a way. A stranger dragged their bodies into the candle-lit darkness inside – with some help from Vargas. 

_Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni._ 1

Richelieu had climbed out of hell up the steep slope of Mount Purgatory, only to face the deceiver again.

The spymaster looked exactly as he had the last time Richelieu had seen him – apart from the blood on his hands, and the murder on his face.

Richelieu froze, feeling as though he was encased up to his neck in a lake of ice. He touched his neck, remembering the only other times Vargas had entered his cell – to promise torture. Only the lack of a collar reminded him that he wasn't in a cell – and Jean's pistol lay on the nightstand; just out of reach. If he lunged—

The man accompanying Vargas had already dropped the corpses and pointed his gun at Richelieu. 

"We meet again, Cardinal," Vargas said.

Richelieu was unable to speak. His mouth was dry, his throat obstructed by dread. He thought his heart must have stopped. _This couldn't be happening._ His eyes darted to the dead men bleeding out on the brocade rug. Were all his guards doomed to fail him? _And where was Treville?_

"Nothing to say?" Vargas walked towards him, a bloody stiletto in hand. "We're going to take you on a journey, your Eminence."

"You will regret this," Richelieu said, his voice thin. 

Why had Vargas been able to achieve in two days what had taken Richelieu eight months?

"On the contrary, I think I'm going to enjoy our reunion very much. Do you remember our last session?" Vargas cast a long look at Richelieu's feet. "Miguel is still alive, I believe. We may have to relocate to a different castle, but I intend to finish what we began the moment we return to Spain. It'll be much harder for you to run when I'm finished."

Richelieu's toes curled. "You can't leave the city at night. Minister Treville is going to find you before the gates open again."

Vargas scoffed. " _Minister Treville?_ Don't you mean _Jean_ , your _pet_?"

Richelieu met his mocking gaze although his heart pounded. "I told you he's good at catching rats. He'll capture you again."

"Perhaps." Vargas stroked his blade. "But you should know that if we can't escape, neither will you."

Richelieu looked at the pistol on the nightstand. Vargas saw his eyes dart. They moved at the same time, but the Spaniard was closer and grabbed Richelieu's arm before he could touch the gun.

Richelieu gasped as Vargas brutally twisted his arm away. 

"Or perhaps," Vargas snarled, "instead of waiting for him to come to us, we should find your Minister Treville and invite him to come along. I have to thank him for my brief—" Vargas stopped, all breath driven from his lungs by the impact of the blade. Eyes wide, he looked down at the dagger in Richelieu's hand. The one stuck in his guts. Vargas reached for the blade, surprise writ large on his face. His dog had a bite.

As Vargas had concentrated on keeping him away from the gun, Richelieu had grabbed Treville's dagger from underneath the pillow. He had just needed Vargas to come closer.

"You—!"

Clutching his wound with one hand, Vargas grabbed Richelieu by the collar. His expression was savage. "You—"

Richelieu never found out what else Vargas thought of him. He pushed the dagger up, and Vargas loosened his grip, gagging. Pulling the blade out of his body, Richelieu pushed him away. 

As Vargas crumpled to the floor, Richelieu threw himself at the pistol again. 

Vargas' accomplice fired.

  


* * *

  


Treville didn't have time to consider what the shots meant. He rushed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

At the top, he was met by a shadow armed with a sword.

Treville did not break his run. There was no time or room to draw his own weapon. He grabbed his opponent's sword with his bare hands, pushing it away to avoid spearing himself, and used his momentum to barrel his attacker over. The stranger hit the ground on his back and Treville landed on top of him. He reached for his dagger to finish him, but his hand only found its empty sheath.

He had left the dagger with Armand. 

His attacker used his moment of confusion to throw Treville off and scramble away, rapier in hand. Away from the confines of the narrow staircase, Treville drew his sword just in time to deflect a thrust aimed at his throat as his opponent threw himself at him with a roar. The momentum from his attack brought the stranger within striking range, allowing Treville to punch the side of his opponent's face with his free hand. The blow sent the attacker tumbling to the side. He let his guard down, and Treville ran him through.

The fight had taken up no more time than it had taken for the musketeers to run up the stairs. The body hit the floor as the first of them reached the landing.

Treville was dimly aware of Aramis shouting "Gutiérrez!" upon seeing his attacker fall, but he had already started running again, hurrying down the corridor towards the Italian Room. He instantly noticed that the guards had disappeared. 

They were never to leave their posts. They were supposed to be _guarding Armand._

He burst through the door and almost stumbled over the corpses in his blind panic over what he might find. The sight of them finally made him come to a halt. Looking around the room, panting, he saw Richelieu kneeling on the bed, holding the pistol Treville had left for him. He looked white as chalk, but he was alive. 

Treville swayed on his feet as a wave of relief crashed into him.

Richelieu was _alive_. 

"Jean?" He sounded as breathless as Treville felt.

As Treville rushed towards him, he was forced to step over another body. Vargas.

King Philip's great spymaster lay crumpled in front of the bed in a puddle of blood. As Treville touched him briefly with his foot to make sure he was dead he saw the wound that had ripped through his guts. _It explained the smell._

Treville shook his head, refusing to waste another thought on Vargas when Richelieu was sitting in front of him; silent and pale, but alive. He stepped around the body, making certain not to stain his boots with Vargas' blood, and climbed onto the bed to gently pry the gun from Richelieu's numb fingers.

Richelieu trembled as he allowed the pistol to be taken away. Treville put an arm around him as he sat down next to Richelieu.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice rough. 

Richelieu shook his head and Treville pulled him in for a kiss. The touch of his lips, the soft pressure of his tongue and the prickling of Richelieu's beard against Treville's skin were the most wonderful sensations in the world.

When they pulled away, Richelieu leaned against his side. "I missed the other one," he said. "He ran. He shot and missed as I went for the pistol." 

Treville was speechless for a moment. He'd almost lost him again. 

"Don't worry," he said into the Cardinal's shoulder, softly caressing the nape of Richelieu's neck. "I got him. He's dead."

Richelieu leaned into his touch. "I killed Vargas."

Treville pulled him closer. "You did," he said. The proof lay at their feet. "He won't touch you again. You're safe." Treville wished that he could have spared Richelieu that sight; that Richelieu hadn't been forced to kill him. But to think that after all the pain he had wrought, Vargas was finally dead... Treville had failed to deliver the great spymaster into the hands of his King, but it was a small price to pay for Richelieu's freedom.

"I know," Richelieu whispered. "The King will not make an example of him after all."

"He'll get over it." Louis would be too relieved over Richelieu's return to spent much thought on the prisoner he'd lost. 

"He will have to," Richelieu said, sighing deeply as Treville buried his fingers in his hair.

Only as they sat together in silence for a moment, did Treville feel the shallow cuts on his palms. He pulled his hands away, staring at them, hardly able to believe what a fool he had been. A rapier's edges were dull enough, but still, to grab them without gloves – his old fencing instructor would have had his hide. 

Sensing Treville's distraction, Richelieu sat up, reaching for his hands. "You're injured."

"Nonsense. It's nothing." Treville was hardly bleeding, but produced a handkerchief more for Richelieu's benefit than his own.

Richelieu took the cloth out of his hands and began to press it against the cuts. "You are the most reckless, foolish man I have ever met."

Treville grinned. "I had to come and see that my First Minister was safe."

Richelieu had lowered his eyes, concentrating on Treville's cuts, but Treville could see his hands tremble. He ached at the sight, longing to touch him again, to reassure him thoroughly that he was well. 

Unwilling to use the dagger that had killed Vargas, Treville took the handkerchief back and ripped it in half. Richelieu helped him wrap a piece around each hand.

Once he no longer ran the risk of bleeding on the Cardinal, Treville took Richelieu's face into his hands and pulled him in for a deep kiss. The sensations made him forget his stinging palms. Richelieu sighed into his mouth as he slung his arms around Treville's neck, his lips parting before the pressure of Treville's tongue. 

Someone cleared their throat. Treville jumped, and Richelieu pulled away so hastily, he nicked Treville's lip. 

Treville whipped his head around to face the door, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was just Athos. 

"I see you're unharmed, Your Eminence," the musketeer said, staring at the ceiling.

Smiling, Treville turned back to Richelieu, expecting the Cardinal to retort with a sarcastic quip. Instead he found him staring at Athos in wide-eyed shock. Treville's confusion lasted only an instant before he realized what Richelieu had to be thinking. That he had survived Vargas' torture only to be killed for a kiss. 

"Athos knows," Treville said, touching the side of Richelieu's face gently. "You can trust him." Richelieu turned his stare on Treville.

Athos bowed. "I saw nothing untoward, Your Eminence." He paused briefly. "And I hope to God to keep it that way."

Richelieu remained tense. Judging by his frown, he was only beginning to accept the idea slowly. Treville felt like a villain for having shared their secret, but what other choice had there been? Athos had come to the right conclusions on his own.

"You know he'd never do anything to cause me harm," Treville said quietly. It was a purifying moment to know that he could believe in the musketeers again – at least in this matter. He had mistrusted Athos and the others with Richelieu's life, but it was as he had told Athos a week ago: He trusted them completely where his own life was concerned. There was no separating his life from Richelieu's in this issue and Athos knew it. _It takes two for a conviction._

"I am merely here to let you know that we should inform the Governor," the musketeer assured them. "He needs to send someone up for the bodies."

The bodies had already slipped from Treville's mind despite their obvious presence. They couldn't leave the unfortunate guards lying on the floor. Or Vargas.

"Carry on then." Richelieu spoke calmly but he looked as uncomfortable as Athos, who barely knew where to look. Treville would have to explain the situation once Athos had left. 

"Yes," Treville agreed. The bodies needed to be dealt with. And not just the bodies. They were not going back to sleep next to the puddle in which Vargas had spilled his bowels and blood. Even once they took the corpse away the smells and stains would linger. "I'll take the Cardinal to my rooms for the time being." He looked at Richelieu. "If his Eminence agrees."

"I'm not going to protest. I won't stay here."

Athos bowed his head again, and was finally free to dash out of the room.

  


* * *

  


"We should gather your things," Treville said, getting off the bed.

Although Richelieu agreed – as he did not plan on walking down the hall in nothing but a shift, even at night – his clothes were the last thing on his mind.

"Athos knows?"

Treville froze; a guilty expression on his face. 

"You _told_ him?" Richelieu's disbelief rapidly turned to anger.

"He worked it out himself," Treville said softly. "I merely admitted what he already knew to be the truth."

"Jean!" Richelieu gaped at him. They had remained undiscovered for too many years to count, only for Treville to admit their relationship _now_.

Treville took a deep breath. It did nothing to decrease Richelieu's anxiety. "When we received your cross, Athos refused to let me join the rescue, since I'm no longer a musketeer. I was very insistent that I should accompany them." Treville looked Richelieu in the eyes. "When he saw us in the dungeon, he realised. He _understands_ , Armand."

"This can't happen!" Yet, even as he snapped, Richelieu imagined Treville's anguish – because of _him_ ; because the musketeers had tried to keep Treville from coming to his rescue. 

How could Richelieu blame him, when he had betrayed Treville to Vargas in the same way? The Spaniard had wasted his last words on a threat against Treville, to make sure Richelieu knew that he'd worked out what Treville meant to him. The only difference was that Vargas had died after he'd finally had his suspicions confirmed.

Treville looked away. "It's unlikely to happen again."

"It is?" Richelieu doubted he should be so lucky as to be spared from assassins and kidnappers now that Vargas was dead.

"There were exceptional circumstances."

"Such as?"

"We didn't know what condition you'd be in when we found you." Richelieu felt a chill creep up his spine as he saw Treville's eyes shine wetly in the half-light. "Whether you were still alive. Whether you were in a condition to leave with us."

 _Whether he could be saved._ Richelieu imagined himself back in the cell, lying on his cot, only half-conscious after a flogging, feverish and bleeding. What if things had worsened by the time the musketeers arrived? What if his wounds had putrefied? What if Vargas had amputated more than a finger and a few toes? What would the musketeers have done if they had found him like that? 

Treville didn't see Richelieu cringe as he'd already turned away from the bed.

"I had to see you," he said, his voice rough and thick with emotion. "I couldn't lose you _again_ without at least seeing you."

Richelieu didn't know what to say. He was still in his cell, cowering next to the brazier, hearing Treville call out to him.

He blinked until he could see clearly again.

"You say I should trust Athos?" he asked. He could see Treville wipe his face before he turned back to face him. His eyes were still wet. 

"Athos won't say a word to anyone," Treville said. "He would never betray me like that."

Richelieu swallowed, wishing things were as simple as Treville made them out to be. "Never? Can you be sure of that?"

"Even if we were to part ways in anger, he wouldn't use something like that." Treville walked back towards the bed, seeking Richelieu's eyes imploringly. "Honour means something to him."

Honour again. _There was—_

" _There's no word in the language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience._ I know." 

Richelieu looked up at Treville in surprise. 

"Fortunately, in this matter Athos and I happen to be equally foolish," Treville added, and a bitter-sweet smile played about his lips.

Richelieu doubted it. _No one_ was as foolish as Treville when it came to honour. He'd cut his own heart to pieces over every part of his duty that conflicted with his sense of honour. Richelieu knew it all too well. He'd been at the root of Treville's bleeding heart many times. 

But it was also true that the musketeers were stupidly loyal to Treville, Athos among the first and foremost. It was one of the few things about them Richelieu didn't resent – excepting those occasions on which their protectiveness had made the musketeers try and keep Richelieu away from Treville. 

"The musketeers' continued loyalty to you is their one redeeming quality," he admitted. He imagined it was the only honest compliment he could ever give them. He prayed he could make Treville forget to tell them.

Said former Captain was smiling at him rather more sweetly than bitterly now. "Thank you." 

Treville leaned down to kiss him only to be stopped by the hand Richelieu placed on his chest. "Perhaps we should wait until we're in your quarters."

"Right," Treville agreed, pretending not to be disappointed. "We should gather your clothes." 

Taking pity on him, Richelieu took hold of the collar of his shirt to prevent him from slinking away and pulled down his head for a quick kiss. 

Treville was used to addressing soldiers, from barking order to rousing speeches, and Richelieu was trained in rhetoric both ecclesiastical and profane, but neither of them had ever found out how to address the other's heart without causing injury now and then.

"I can't say I trust Athos," Richelieu said, "but I trust you. Now let us leave before Lapierre's men arrive."

Treville handed him his coat with a smile and helped him put on his stockings, hose and slippers. There was no need to put on more clothes once modesty was satisfied. Slinging the coat around his shoulders, Richelieu watched Treville pick up the weapons he'd left behind, including the dagger he was trying to wipe clean on Vargas' clothing after having refused Richelieu's handkerchief for the task.

The late spymaster was staring straight ahead, glassy eyes open. Richelieu made the sign of the cross over him before he could stop himself.

He couldn't describe what he felt when he looked at that corpse, white, bleeding, and spreading the odour of the grave. _Bitten by a dog_. Richelieu closed his eyes, recalling the sickening ease with which the dagger had slipped in – as though Vargas had been made of butter. Only when he had twisted the blade had he felt any resistance; of tissue tearing, cartilage, and organs. It had been so easy. He lifted his hands. There were blood stains on the space between his forefinger and thumb. He used spittle and his handkerchief to wipe them off.

Looking at Vargas, he remembered the sensation of a rough stone floor beneath raw soles and a piece of charcoal clamped in fingers too stiff to write. He felt the prick of the fork, and the bite of the cane. The fact that his torturer lay dead before him, struck down by his hand, didn't make the memories sting any less. 

It wasn't what he had expected to feel. With the threat gone, shouldn't he feel more peaceful? Richelieu had gotten his revenge, but killing Vargas hadn't given him back his toes, or the use of his fingers, or his _time_.

The things he wished on Vargas' soul were no thoughts a Christian – and a Cardinal in particular – should entertain. It was not his place to judge the dead, but judge he did. Once he was back in Paris, the man Richelieu needed to seek out the most would be his confessor.

His first confession would be a long one. He hadn't confessed in months. It was another thing that Vargas had withheld from him. If Richelieu were to be given Communion now, he was sure the host would turn into ashes in his mouth. Vargas had never even returned his rosary; the one he had kept since childhood. The sin Vargas had taken upon himself by exiling Richelieu from his faith was enormous enough for the punishment that Richelieu imagined waiting for the spymaster not to seem so improbable.

Richelieu took no comfort in that fact. It meant he might see him again someday.

"Armand?"

Richelieu looked up as Treville slipped a hand into his. He'd been so taken up by his thoughts that he hadn't noticed he'd stood up. 

Richelieu tore his eyes away from the corpse, hoping Treville hadn't taken his contemplative silence for grief. _He wasn't grieving. He wasn't._

"Are you ready?" Treville asked.

"Yes," he said. Here was someone he'd gotten back. Richelieu tried to intertwine their fingers, but his wouldn't close around Treville's all the way.

He shot once last glance at Vargas. "We should leave before he starts to reek even worse." 

Treville transferred his hand to the small of Richelieu's back as he led him into the corridor, where they came across Athos leading a group of Lapierre's men up the stairs. 

"Captain!" Treville waved him over. They stood in silence for a moment as they let the guards pass to take care of their murdered brethren. _More sin Vargas had taken upon himself before he died._

"Please inform Governor Lapierre that we will be returning to Corbie in the morning."

Athos accepted the news with a nod, but Richelieu was unable to mask his surprise. "What about your work here?" He wouldn't allow Treville to neglect his duty to the King because the attack on Richelieu spooked him. "Vargas is dead— there's no need—"

"There's no need to stay here," Treville interrupted. "I got them to agree to my demands. My secretaries can do the rest. You've _met_ Favre."

Richelieu had already opened his mouth to argue but shut it again. It was true that Favre did not seem like the man who would allow anyone to go back on their pledge.

"He seems competent enough," he conceded, wondering how his own secretaries would square up against him – if he got them back. If he didn't, he would have to offer Favre a job. Jean would understand. After all, all was fair in love and politics.

They left Athos to deliver the message and finally reached Treville's quarters, where they passed through the office into the bedroom before Treville locked the door behind them. 

The bed looked even statelier than the one in the Italian Room, and Richelieu was overcome by a wave of fatigue at the sight. He had thought his torment was over when they had escaped from Raveau's chateau, but there had been half a day's ride through enemy territory ahead of him. He'd thought it was over when they'd reached Amiens, but he had to be washed and shaved like an invalid by a stranger and the Queen's insipid lover. He thought it was over when he'd gone to sleep at Treville's side for the first time in months, but the ruler of Limbo had appeared on his doorstep to drag him back to Hell. Even now that Vargas was dead, Richelieu found it hard to believe that they could sleep undisturbed for the rest of the night.

He didn't resist as Treville pulled his coat away. He sat down on the bed, burying his fingers in the thick covers, and watched as Treville helped him out of his hose and slippers. Even though there was nothing sexual in his touch, Treville's fingers lingered. Richelieu inhaled deeply as Treville's hands ghosted over his thighs, and cupped his calves. The present was so much more pleasant than his memories.

If there was any hope – _any_ – that the gates of Purgatory would open for him, that his soul would be spared from meeting Vargas again in hell, it would be Treville's doing.

Once Treville had relieved him of his stockings he paused to place a gentle kiss on Richelieu's feet. When he looked up at Richelieu his eyes were bright with emotion.

"Did Vargas say or do anything?"

"Nothing important." Unless it involved state secrets, nothing Vargas said had ever been as important as Treville's touch. "Didn't I tell you there are better places to kiss than my feet?"

Treville looked as though he was about to say something else, but thought better of it. Smiling, he raised himself up and climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Richelieu's legs before leaning in for a proper kiss.

 _There were so many things more important than Vargas_ , Richelieu thought as Treville broke away and he could form clear a thought again. Not the least of these thoughts was that they'd be leaving behind this place of in-betweens in the morning to head for Corbie and then, finally, return to Paris with the King. It struck him that he would see Louis again soon. That France would have a First Minister again.

How would Louis react when he returned unannounced? 

"You never wrote to the King," he said between gasps – Treville had moved on to pepper tickling kisses along his neck. 

"You distracted me," Treville said, pulling away to finally shrug out of his coat. Richelieu couldn't wait to see him wear it in Court. It would fit in well with the splendour of the Louvre – and his Palais. 

The idea of doing this in his own bedroom again was incredibly attractive.

"You should return the favour," Richelieu said, making Treville grin. Perhaps this night they would both sleep well after all.

  


* * *

  


1 _The banners of the King of Hell advance_ – a play on a Christian Hymn used in Dante's Divine Comedy to introduce Lucifer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I speak out of concern, as a Cardinal, and from personal experience," he said. "It's cold in Hell, your Majesty. Particularly in the lower reaches."_

When Treville reached the courtyard the musketeers' horses were already saddled, along with two of the Governor's pack horses. His gift of wine had doubled in size since Vargas' demise. 

Lapierre was there too, talking to Richelieu, who had wrapped himself in a borrowed travelling cloak.

"Let me express again, how glad I am that you're still with us, your Eminence," Lapierre said as Treville joined them, "safe and unharmed."

He frowned. A man one finger and four toes short could hardly be called _unharmed_. Fortunately, Richelieu was far more diplomatic in his answer.

"I am," the Cardinal said, "thanks to the Minister's foresight." _And no thanks to you_.

"You saved yourself," Treville corrected him. If he had truly possessed foresight, he wouldn't have left Richelieu alone once Athos had mentioned Vargas.

"I didn't just mean last night." Although Richelieu's face betrayed no emotion bar a familiar sarcastic smile – a smile that had driven Treville mad when they had argued at Court – his words spoke clearly enough. Treville quietly cursed Lapierre for not having left yet. 

"Ministers," the Governor began, and despite his annoyance, Treville couldn't help but smile at the strangeness of sharing a title with Richelieu. "If there is anything I can do to make you reconsider your abrupt departure — you must want to keep an eye on your secretaries?"

There were few things that needed doing less. Favre had appeared a little too relieved at the prospect taking charge without his Minister's oversight, but Treville couldn't bring himself to chastise him. As he had never been that keen on paperwork, he was grateful for Favre's zeal. He wouldn't even need to be around for the final touches. As Favre had taken great pride in explaining to him, every good secretary could forge their master's signature.

"We are needed in Corbie," Treville said firmly. Although the Governor clearly felt guilty over Vargas' escape, Treville wouldn't be sorry to see the last of him. If Louis decided to give Amiens to someone else, he wouldn't protest.

"Won't you at least stay and hear mass?" Lapierre asked, somewhat desperately. "Our cathedral is famed for its beauty."

"No, I expect we will hear mass in Corbie," Treville said. At his side, Richelieu flinched. 

Fortunately, the Governor seemed to realise that his cause was lost and retreated back into his Palais with what dignity he had left, leaving Treville free to focus his attentions on the man at his side.

"Would you have liked to stay for the mass?"

"No." Richelieu's face remained unreadable, but the smile had disappeared. "I should like to go to confession first, but it would keep us too long, I'm afraid."

Gently, Treville brushed the back of his hand against Richelieu's. The gloves he wore to protect the healing cuts on his palms made the familiar gesture less intimate, but the courtyard was too public for anything else. 

Treville couldn't remember the last time he'd confessed to a priest – except for drunken or tired ramblings in the company of Richelieu. He felt like Vargas had been the only one who had something to confess in this matter, but that wasn't what Richelieu needed or wanted to hear. This was between him and God.

In that moment the carriage finally drew up. Richelieu had agreed not to attempt the journey on horseback, and would travel to Corbie in the carriage Treville's secretaries had arrived in. He was stronger than he had been when they'd brought him to Amiens, but eight months of captivity had left their mark.

Treville's manservant appeared to help Richelieu up the steps, but Treville told him to keep the driver company. Offering his arm, he assisted Richelieu into the carriage, before sitting down on the opposite bench.

"You're not riding?" Richelieu asked.

"No," Treville said. He would have liked to leave the city as he had arrived – on horseback, like a soldier – but for the moment he wanted them to have this privacy. "I'll ride into Corbie later, but for now, we can talk." Who knew when they would have a chance to once they were with the King?

"What about?"

What about indeed? They'd be in Corbie soon, back with the King – and the _Queen_. How would she react to Richelieu's return? She had taken the news of his survival calmly, but it was hard to gauge her feelings behind her regal mask. Compared to Louis, who occasionally couldn't stop himself from raving even when it hurt his image, Anne was as quiet and mysterious as a sphinx. 

Would her mask crack when she saw Richelieu again?

_What if she hadn't forgiven Richelieu as she had claimed after his confession? What if the shock of the Cardinal learning of her affair with Aramis so closely after she escaped death had driven her to reach out to her brother for help?_

Treville shook his head as though this would suffice to dislodge his niggling doubts.

"Foresight," he mumbled as the carriage jumped into motion, leading them away from the Governor's Palais – and Vargas' remains. "If only." He shook his head. "I should never have left your side," he continued, not knowing if he meant the past night or the day Richelieu had died.

"You have nothing to blame yourself for." Richelieu reached across to touch his knee briefly. "Vargas has been Madrid's spymaster for years. You don't stay in this business for long if you haven't got a talent for it. You couldn't know what would happen. Just as you couldn't know I wasn't dead."

Treville swallowed. _He couldn't have known_ , and neither could anyone else, unless–  
could the Queen have struck against Richelieu in such a terrible way? Could the young woman who gave out coin to prisoners and believed in second chances have ordered a man kidnapped and tortured?

What would it mean for them if she had? She was still the Queen of France, the woman Treville was sworn to protect. Only the safety of the King and Dauphin took precedence over hers, whereas Richelieu was merely a minister; a self-confessed traitor in possession of potentially deadly secrets.

Treville looked into Richelieu's face, gaunt and grey. He had never been a particularly robust, healthy man, and now – only time would tell if the marks Vargas' dungeon had left on him could ever heal.

"There was something I meant to ask you last night, but I didn't want—" He struggled to find the right words. "Did Vargas ever tell you _why_ he kidnapped you?" 

Richelieu hesitated, taken aback by the question. "The Spanish never liked my policies," he said. "Minister Olivares has wanted me removed for years."

Treville swallowed. "So why keep you alive?"

"Why waste a valuable asset?" A bitter smile crossed Richelieu's face and Treville winced. Only Vargas' hubris, a faint hope of drawing information out of the First Minister of France combined with his sadism had preserved Richelieu's life long enough for Treville to find him.

"So why did they strike when they did?"

"To create a power vacuum for Rochefort to fill."

It was a reasonable explanation, but Treville's doubts remained. "They had Rochefort for five years." The thought that they could have held Richelieu, too, for longer made Treville shudder. "Could they truly not have acted sooner?"

"You have a suspicion?"

"Vargas needed help from within your Palais to pull this off."

"He told me he bribed my physician." Richelieu's eyes narrowed. "Who else do you suspect?"

Treville opened his mouth, but now that the time had come to speak or stay silent no words would come. "No one." There was no reason to his suspicions apart from broken trust and fear. Richelieu had curled up in bed, and he'd pressed against him during the past two nights, overcome by a need to be close in a way he never had before. There was no need to add to the profound feeling of vulnerability that Vargas had left him with. "I was merely— trying to make sense of it."

"Jean."

"If I _knew_ something, I'd tell you." He couldn't bear the thought that Richelieu could distrust him now. "I simply find the timing suspicious." 

"I asked Vargas a similar question. Why did he act when he did?" 

Treville suppressed a sigh of relief as Richelieu leaned back into his seat, thoughtful, seemingly at ease with his explanation. 

"I wondered why they should risk someone as volatile as Rochefort and not wait for someone else." Richelieu paused, frowning in thought. "You suspect someone put the idea into Olivares' head?"

"Or Philip's." Treville swallowed. He should never have brought the matter up. Now Richelieu would follow this road all the way to its end. "Is there someone at Court who has a motivation to do something like this to you?"

Richelieu smiled bitterly. "Almost everyone. A better question would be whether anyone would have the necessary connections to involve the spymaster himself–" _Ah!_ Richelieu's eyes lit up and Treville knew he had said too much.

"It was a wise decision to keep news of my rescue quiet." Richelieu tugged his beard thoughtfully. "If there was anybody else involved their reaction to my return should be interesting."

"I'll keep an eye open and tell my staff to do the same." Perhaps Treville was wrong. Perhaps a different culprit would be found and Treville would feel foolish for ever suspecting the Queen could be involved.

Richelieu's smile became sweeter. "I know you will." He threw a look out of the window, deeming it safe to draw back the curtains now that they were out of the city. 

Treville could barely stop himself from sighing in relief.

Two days ago – had it truly only been two days? – Treville had taken this same road into Amiens, dirty, tired, holding on to Richelieu, not thinking of any future beyond caring for the Cardinal's wounds and taking him home. The Court and its never-ending games had been far away then. Now he was taking Richelieu home but the future appeared even more incalculable.

"You told me of the war, but little of the Louvre," Richelieu said. "How is the Dauphin?"

 _At last a safe topic._ "Healthy. Lively. He's learning how to crawl."

"And his mother?"

Treville hesitated. "The Queen is well in body, but less so in spirit. The King and she don't see eye to eye."

"On what?"

"On anything."

Richelieu's eyes flashed again. "Louis was distant to her before my abduction. Now you tell me their relationship hasn't improved?"

"It got worse after the Dauphin was born." Regardless of whether or not Richelieu suspected her, this was something the First Minister needed to know. "The King loves the child, but he merely tolerates his wife."

"Have you spoken to him about this?"

Treville shook his head. "He refuses to talk." Having regained his standing at Court didn't mean he could make the King speak of matters he refused to acknowledge.

"Perhaps I'll have better luck. He spoke to me about his troubles with the Queen before."

The last conversation King Louis had with his First Minister about his relationship with the Queen had prompted the Cardinal to hire a mercenary to assassinate her. "Armand—"

Richelieu waved him off. "Don't look so concerned. Now that there is an heir, the Queen has nothing to fear from me."

Treville expelled the breath he'd been holding. He couldn't say whether he'd been more concerned for the Queen or the Cardinal.

"But you know the saying," Richelieu continued, "it's preferable to have an heir and a spare – something that is much easier to achieve when the King and Queen are on speaking terms."

His casual tone made Treville wince, but he didn't mind enough to protest. Richelieu had few reasons to love the Queen – even fewer if there was a grain of truth to his persistent doubts. 

"Whenever the Queen presses the matter, the King reminds her the time she spends alone with the Dauphin is allocated only by his grace." This, too, Louis refused to talk about.

"Has he made good on that threat yet?"

"Not since Rochefort was killed. The Queen claims not to know what angered the King," Treville said, but he imagined she had a suspicion. After all, Louis had condemned her as a traitor because of what Rochefort had told him about her and Aramis. Once Rochefort had been killed, the King had claimed to no longer believe in the accusations, but Treville remembered the isolated boy Louis had been, who had learned from a very young age how to nurse his grudges quietly.

The King had stopped hiding his hurt once Marie had been exiled, but perhaps that boy, who had ignored his mother's derision and taunts until he'd been old enough to free himself from her, had grown up to be a better actor than anyone suspected.

"She _claims_?" Richelieu caught Treville's gaze. "Do you suspect she knows better?"

Treville hesitated. If Aramis was wrong about Richelieu, he risked betraying his Queen and his future King to the man who had attempted to have her assassinated before – the man he professed to love. It was time to show trust. "Aramis told me you overheard him and the Queen talking after her pregnancy was first announced."

"Did he?" Richelieu blinked in surprise. 

"He claimed you know of certain secrets concerning the Queen, the Dauphin— and himself."

"So, it seems, do _you_."

It appeared as though Aramis had been right.

"Tell me the Queen and your musketeer have learned to behave more subtly in my absence?"

"So you knew? Aramis is my musketeer. Don't you think you should have told me about this?"

Richelieu shrugged. "What would you have done if I had told you of my suspicions? Would you have betrayed the Queen? Surrendered her to execution? Or your musketeer? Would you have even believed me?"

Treville looked away briefly. The time after Richelieu's attempt on the Queen's life had come to light hadn't been easy for either of them. "No," he said eventually.

"The King was finally about to have an heir," Richelieu said more calmly. "There was no need for you to know anything else." He paused to catch Treville's eyes. "You wouldn't have forgiven my treason sooner just because I told you Aramis and the Queen were traitors as well." 

Treville huffed, guilty. If Richelieu had tried to tell him the truth about Aramis, he would have merely given Treville more targets for his anger and disappointment – if he had believed him at all.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't have felt vindicated," Treville said.

"I can't claim the idea never entered my mind –" Richelieu's expression softened – "but ultimately it would have come at the cost of causing you unnecessary pain."

Treville sank back into his seat, unsure how to respond. "You know I don't need you to hold back for my sake."

"But I wanted to."

  


* * *

  


They reached Corbie around noon. The King's army had already begun to melt away as the regiments were needed elsewhere, but to Treville the gathering of soldiers in and around the city still made for an impressive sight. 

Having switched to his horse before they had approached the first camps surrounding Corbie, Treville led their party into the city where a brief questioning of the city guards revealed that the King and his retinue had gone to church. As they made their way to the cathedral, they passed a square in which gallows had been erected – presumably to execute those of Corbie's citizen convicted of treason during the Spanish occupation. Treville wondered if the King had yet made good on his threat to burn the city's former military commanders in effigy, but there was no time to investigate as bells sounded the end of mass. 

When they drew up before the tall gothic building, the royal carriage stood ready to receive King and Queen. Treville immediately jumped off his horse, bidding Athos to do the same and take up his station by the carriage, before he hurried to help Richelieu down.

He regretted swapping the carriage for his horse when he noticed how drawn Richelieu's face looked. 

Richelieu had barely put his feet on the ground before he froze, staring at a space over Treville's shoulder. He turned to see the gates of the cathedral had opened before the royal couple, who were leading the procession of the faithful out of the church. Treville offered his arm to lead him towards the royal carriage, but Richelieu refused, walking towards the cathedral with long strides. The drawn, nervous expression had been replaced by the haughtiness he customarily reserved for Court. 

"Your Majesties," he called, causing King and Queen to arrest their steps. The noblemen behind them followed suit. Louis gaped wordlessly as he recognised Richelieu.

"Sire." Treville bowed as they finally came to a halt in front of the King. "It is my pleasure to present to you Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-duc de Richelieu."

Someone in the crowd gasped.

"Your Majesty." Richelieu sank onto his knees before his King, but Louis immediately dropped Anne's arm to pull him back onto his feet.

"Armand! You're alive!" Tears gathered in the corners of the King's eyes as he drew Richelieu into a tight embrace. "I thought you lost."

Richelieu stood stock-still for a moment, made speechless, before he relaxed into the King's arms. Treville couldn't stop himself from smiling at the sight.

"I am safe, your Majesty," Richelieu said when the King released him to look him up and down. He still appeared somewhat stunned at the King's breach of Court protocol. "Thanks to the efforts of Minister Treville and Captain Athos." His tongue had to be burning from complimenting the musketeers.

As dignified as possible with tears drying on his face, the King first took Treville's hand and then Athos'.

"You have done your King a great service," he said to his Captain. "It is my wish that all those of your men involved in the rescue dine at my table tonight." 

Athos bowed. To sit at the King's table was a high honour though hardly a reward the musketeers, Aramis in particular, could have hoped for. 

"Please return to the fortress with us in my carriage, Cardinal," the King said. "I'm certain Anne won't mind."

Queen Anne's face might have been hewn from stone as King and Cardinal turned to look at her.

"Cardinal," she said without emotion, extending her hand to be kissed, "you're back."

"Your Majesty." Richelieu used his left to guide her hand to his face and Treville could see her eyes widen in shock when she noticed the missing ring finger. Richelieu had to have seen it too. 

"Words can't express how glad I am to find myself in your presence again," he continued, smiling.

Under the eyes of the King and his courtiers, the Queen could do nothing but nod and withdraw her hand calmly.

The King, however, exhibited less composure. He grabbed Richelieu's hands, a pained expression on his face and fresh tears in his eyes. "Whoever is responsible for this will pay. Captain!"

For once Treville didn't turn his head as the King addressed someone else as _Captain_. While Athos explained that the culprit may already have paid, but that a public space was hardly the place to discuss details, Treville didn't dare to take his eyes off the Queen. She was standing stiff and still like a statue at her husband's side, but Treville had to remind himself that shock was no admission of guilt. Rather the opposite, as she had clearly been surprised to see the mark of torture on Richelieu.

When Louis conceded that they should repair to the fortress she walked to the carriage at his side ashen-faced.

  


* * *

  


Soldiers stood guard over every doorway as they made their way to the King's study. They ought to have inspired a sense of safety, but Richelieu couldn't help being reminded of his prison. _Would anything ever not call up memories of that chateau?_ Perhaps he should have accepted Treville's offer of razing it to the ground, but Richelieu suspected even that wouldn't stop the ghost of the place from haunting him.

"Treville," the King interrupted Richelieu's thoughts as they finally reached the study. "How did you fare in Amiens?"

"The negotiations went well. Your Majesty can expect the first shipments within the week."

"Excellent. Why don't you inform the city council? They have been nagging me about it since you left."

Taking a last look at Richelieu, Treville bowed and turned back the way they had come.

Richelieu didn't turn around to watch him walk away, but he'd been around Treville so much in the past days that he immediately felt a loss at his leaving. The guards remained outside as he and Louis entered the study alone.

The study was small, particularly for a King, but the pair of upholstered chairs by the fireside looked comfortable and the small writing desk was well-lit. Looking at the pair of windows behind it Richelieu stopped in his tracks. They were set with panels of obscure glass, like his cell in the tower. In the harsh noon sunlight, the lead ornamentation separating the panels looked like bars.

Richelieu reached for his throat, suddenly short of breath. 

"Armand?"

The King was staring at him. There was no collar. He was in Corbie and there was no collar, no cell, no Vargas.

"What is it? You look pale."

"I'm fine, sire," Richelieu reassured him, quickly dropping his hand. "I merely need some fresh air. Would you mind if I opened the windows?"

"It _is_ a bit stuffy in here," Louis agreed. "Someone will have to reprimand the servants."

Despite the sunshine the autumn winds blew in cold, but at least the room looked much less oppressive once the windows were open. Richelieu wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders. If only all of his problems could be solved that easily. 

"Are you certain you are well?"

"As well as I can be."

It was unheard of that one should sit while the King remained standing, but Richelieu, feeling faint, accepted the chair Louis offered. He sat down facing away from the windows, thinking that his reunion with the King was quickly turning from surprisingly pleasant to annoyingly frustrating. The last thing he needed was for Louis to make a fuss, and thus reminding Richelieu there was something to be made a fuss about.

"I gather you wished to speak to me alone, your Majesty?"

The King nodded. "I can't tell you how relieved I am you're back," he said, fresh tears forming in his eyes. Still Richelieu doubted Louis was as relieved as he himself was. "I thought you were dead!"

_A widespread opinion._

"So I've heard. Minister Treville told me you had a tomb erected?"

"You deserved it!" Louis lifted a hand to his mouth, overcome. Richelieu averted his gaze briefly.

"The council, the nobility, they're all vultures!" Louis continued. "They all took advantage. I couldn't trust anyone!"

Richelieu remained silent. Whatever Louis was raving about, it clearly needed out – and it was more comfortable than speaking about his death.

"Even Rochefort—"

Richelieu winced. Vargas had been vague about what Rochefort had been doing in Paris, but it had been enough to make Richelieu fear for Louis' life – and Treville's. "What about Rochefort?"

"He poisoned me! After all I did for him! After I made him First Minister!" Louis' gaze was drawn to Richelieu's hand and the scarring left behind by the missing finger that used to carry his ring of office. The King quieted immediately.

"No one could replace you," he said softly, before looking away. A tear trickled down to his chin. "So many people thought they could disrespect me, threaten me – their King! But now _you_ 're back."

"I am, sire." Richelieu hadn't pressed Treville's for details on the situation at the Louvre while they had been in Amiens, having deemed regaining his mind more important. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

"You'll bring them to heel for me."

"I will," Richelieu said. Having come back from the dead should make this specific task easier.

"I could always rely on you," Louis said, smiling through his tears. "You won't believe what happened. My own mistress betrayed me. Of course I was a fool to think her feelings could have been genuine, I just—" he started pacing "—I enjoyed her interest." Another tear ran down his cheek. "And the Queen— my _wife_ —"

Richelieu's mouth was suddenly dry. "What did the Queen do?"

"She betrayed me worst of all." The King finally sat down. "My son, my dear little son–" Louis stopped, rubbing a hand over his wet eyes. "He's not my blood."

Richelieu swallowed. He hadn't expected the King to find out. Even when Treville had told him of the bad blood between Anne and Louis he had believed that Louis at most _suspected_ something was amiss. 

"How can you be sure, sire?"

When Louis removed his hand his eyes were red. "I waited for her to come to me. Every King in Europe would laugh at me if they knew. _They_ know how sons are made." Richelieu averted his gaze while Louis fought for composure, blinking furiously. "I tried, you know I did, Cardinal. I kept my distance after she lost the first child, but I didn't mean to do her harm." Louis had clearly changed his mind about that last resolution since Richelieu's abduction.

"I loved her," the King continued, fresh tears forming in his eyes. _'I loved her'_. No longer then.

"I waited for her to come to me – but she went to someone else. A musketeer." 

"A musketeer?" Richelieu asked, unwilling to disturb Louis' flow of words by saying the wrong thing.

A flush of rage covered the King's grief. "I knew even before Rochefort told me."

So Rochefort had found out as well – _before or after Vargas had lost control over him_?

"I almost let him kill her," the King continued, "and he would have killed my son as well – my little son!" Louis lifted his hand to eyes again to wipe his tears away, but it was futile. The tears flowed and flowed and the King of France sobbed. 

"But your son is alive, sire," Richelieu said softly, daring to stand up and place a hand on his King's shoulders. "And so is your wife." Although Richelieu couldn't claim to possess a particularly nurturing spirit, he was still a priest. He had cared for his diocese long before he had found a permanent place at Court and knew what the King needed to hear. "You are a good man who made a mistake, your Majesty, but no lasting harm was done. There is still time to make amends."

The King lifted a hand to cover Richelieu's and slowly his sobs subsided. 

"I always wished to continue my father's line," he said, cleaning his face with his handkerchief. "I know I'm not – him. You knew him, Armand. He was a hero. Beloved by all." _Except his Queen._ "I thought my son would bring our family name the honour it deserved – if I ever had a son. But the Dauphin isn't even a Bourbon."

Richelieu's grip tightened. "Did you confess these things to anybody else?" He almost sighed in relief when Louis shook his head. "Then let me be your confessor and tell you that if you are truly penitent you'll be forgiven."

"I am!" Frustration flashed in Louis' shining eyes. "What would you have me do? Say a hundred Hail Marys?"

"Your Majesty, despite his common blood you still regard the Dauphin as your son."

"Yes, of _course_ I do! He's my son! He's still so little – and innocent."

"Then you can still be loved," Richelieu said. "Raise him to be your son and your father's grandson, and you will be the father of a great King."

Louis looked up at him with round, red eyes. "Will you help me?"

A bitter-sweet smile tugged at Richelieu's lips. It was impossible to say what kind of King Louis could have become if Marie hadn't abused her position as Regent and Queen Mother to ensure he wasted his childhood with pursuits of leisure instead of teaching him discipline and statecraft. She had created a mellow, vulnerable King, who, even as an adult, might never catch up to the person he could have been – and for the longest time Richelieu had profited from her treason. He had enjoyed being given free rein by a King who knew he could never govern on his own. 

But Richelieu couldn't forget that once he'd been dragged away from Paris, from power, the thought had scared him that all that stood between his life's work and ruin was this small-minded, inadequate man, who wanted to be a strong King but had no idea how to become one. Louis was the King he had needed to enable his rise. He was not the King France deserved now that he was approaching his zenith.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I will."

"My dear Cardinal." Smiling, Louis took his hand – his four-fingered hand. His smile vanished. "You bled so much for my kingdom, for me."

Richelieu swallowed. He wanted to withdraw his hand but forced himself to resist. "It is my duty," he said, but the words sounded weak to his ears. Did he prefer a finger over his post? His toes? He didn't know. During that first night at Amiens, as Treville had held him, Richelieu had mused that those who played the games of intrigues at Court all over Europe knew the price of losing. Knowing _of_ the price had turned out to be quite different from actually being forced to pay.

If Vargas had managed to take him prisoner again, Richelieu wasn't sure he would have possessed the strength to escape a second time – to hold out for another rescue. To have come so close, only to be plunged back into Hell, might have shattered him.

"Armand? Are you feeling unwell?"

Richelieu blinked, realising he had been staring at nothing. His heart was pounding. "I'm well, sire," he said quickly, surprised at how breathless his voice sounded. "Don't concern yourself."

The King gripped his hand tightly. "The Spanish did this to you. Before they left, my musketeers told me they suspected Vargas was behind your abduction."

"They were correct." Richelieu wished the King hadn't sent Treville away, so he could have left the explanations to him. "But Vargas is dead now." _I killed him._ This was true. Vargas was dead. It didn't matter what could have happened – whether Richelieu would have faced his fate with dignity or tried to dig his way out of Raveau's dungeon with what remained of his fingers – it would never happen now.

_Vargas was dead._

"Good," Louis said. "If we weren't already fighting I'd declare war again. What were they thinking? Abducting my First Minister!"

Richelieu decided this was not the time to remind Louis that similar crimes had been committed by French agents in his name. He didn't have time to follow that thought before the King stood up, searching his eyes.

"Armand, will you be my First Minister again?" he asked.

Would he risk life – and quite literally – limb again to regain his old post? Would he face Courtiers and Grands who sought to take his life from day to day?

"Yes," he said. "I would be honoured." As far as Richelieu was concerned, he'd never stopped being First Minister.

The King embraced him again, but this time Richelieu was prepared.

"Your ring—" Louis said, as he released him. "I don't have it. It will be returned to you once I'm back in Paris."

Richelieu bowed. He still had nine fingers left.

  


* * *

  


Treville was on his way to report back to the King when a footman dressed in the Queen's livery walked up to him. 

"Minister, her Majesty requests your attendance in her sitting room."

"Now?" The Queen, excluded from the King's council, occasionally called on him to discuss the King's policies. She had no real influence over the decisions made as the council deferred to Treville only in matters of war on which she had no advice to give, but their conversations were a way to keep her informed. Perhaps they made her feel less ineffectual.

It was no surprise that she should summon him after his return from Amiens.

"Lead on, then," he said, deciding Richelieu and the King could use another moment to themselves.

Anne was standing by the window when Treville was admitted to her quarters, folding her silk handkerchief in her hands. Her eyes were slightly red as she turned to greet him, filling Treville with a sense of foreboding. 

As he bowed, he shot a glance at her ladies who were standing by a side table at the other side of the room, wearing carefully guarded expressions. Their conversation had shut off as Treville entered.

Had there been another argument with the King?

"Treville," the Queen said, tucking away her handkerchief. "I'm glad you could come straight away." 

"How may I be of service?" Treville asked, feeling his sense of foreboding grow as he watched her wring her hands.

"I need your opinion – on the Cardinal."

Treville's eyes darted back towards the ladies. They looked as confused as he. "What would you have me tell you?" he asked, feeling his heartbeat quicken.

"You spent some time with him in Amiens," she said slowly. "How is he?"

 _He tires quickly. He isn't sleeping well. He killed a man._ Treville didn't know what to say, reluctant to reveal anything Anne's ladies might turn into Court gossip. He wouldn't add to Richelieu's humiliation.

The Queen understood. "Leave, all of you."

The women shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind them. Anne waited a moment for them to have gained some distance before speaking again.

"I realise you have never been the best of friends, but you've known him for longer than I have been in France – did he seem different to you, changed?"

"Your Majesty, he has been tortured." He had lost four of his toes, his toenails, one of his fingers, and the full use of some of the rest. He had been beaten, flogged, cut. _Of course_ he wasn't the same. Taking a steadying breath, Treville reminded himself that Anne didn't know about the extent of his ordeal – unless…

Anne closed her eyes, a pained expression on her face. She picked up her handkerchief again, probably just to give her hands something to do as she paced across the room. 

"Did he mention my son?"

Treville faltered, taken aback. "The Cardinal enquired after his health. He was relieved to hear that the King finally had an heir."

Anne looked at him, arresting her steps. "He knows."

"About Aramis and you?" Treville took care to keep his face immobile.

She nodded. "You've stood with me, Treville; protected me against Rochefort's accusations despite knowing the truth." She caught and held his gaze, worry reflecting clear in her eyes. "I need your help. After the Cardinal, you're the one my husband trusts the most. Now that he's back, I don't know what will happen to my son and me."

Treville swallowed. She was seeking his protection from the Cardinal – from the man he had rescued from a dungeon a mere couple of days ago; whose scars he had kissed, whom he held at night. The man he loved.

"What would you have me do, your Majesty?"

She inhaled slowly, raising her chin. "I never told Louis what Richelieu did. I kept my word, and once he disappeared – once he was abducted – it ceased to matter."

It had stopped mattering before that. The threat the Queen had made after Richelieu had confessed had turned into a bluff – easily ignored as her favour with the King had faded with every passing month of her pregnancy.

Her relationship to the King that had protected her had eroded while the First Minister had grown ever more powerful as new military alliances were made across Europe in the face of rising tension with Spain.

"I'm afraid the King won't believe you if you tell him now." 

A bitter smile played about Anne's lips. "I don't believe I should tell him. It would be cruel to call for the Cardinal's execution when he has just returned from the dead." She pressed her eyes shut. They shone wetly when she opened them again. "I'm even glad he isn't dead."

"He'll be a great help to the King—"

"Treville—" she interrupted him. "I must ask that nothing of what I say now can ever leave this room."

Treville closed his mouth. A chill crawled up his spine, as the Queen paced towards the table her ladies had vacated, her gaze turned to the floor.

"A year ago, I made a decision to take action against a threat; to ensure my child's safety." She paused, wringing her handkerchief. "I may have acted rashly."

"Your Majesty?"

"I wasn't afraid at first. I had beaten the Cardinal at his own game, made him confess." She looked up. "With your help." 

Treville stayed silent. On that day his relationship with Richelieu had almost broken beyond repair. To think they might not have made up before Vargas took him – he felt his throat constrict.

"But then he found out about me and Aramis," Anne continued, "and the King turned away from me more with every day." She looked at him imploringly and Treville could feel claws of ice reach for his rapidly beating heart. "I had to act. I had to do _something_."

Treville's tongue was as heavy as lead as he spoke. "What did you do?"

Anne stood sill for a moment, composing herself. "I wrote to my brother."

Treville felt sick. It had been _her_.

"I wrote to Philip that the Cardinal had ways to remove me, that I feared for my life and that of my unborn child."

"That is treason, Your Majesty." She had committed treason – again. The room spun before his eyes but he managed to stand still. "Have you forgotten the last time you wrote to your brother for help? Or the letters that went missing before that?"

 _'You should have told me.'_ Treville had said these words to Richelieu once, after he had realised who had been behind the attempt on the Queen's life. _'I would have stopped you.'_

"The Cardinal committed treason against me first." 

"Which you forgave him," Treville said, fighting for composure. _She had caused Richelieu's abduction._ "For reasons of state."

Anne's eyes flashed but her outrage didn't last beyond a moment. "I didn't make the connection when the Cardinal fell ill," she said more calmly, biting her lip. "Only when you told me the Spanish had taken him did I realise what my brother must have done." 

Treville couldn't help but stare. "What did you expect King Philip to do?"

"I don't know! I was afraid for my son!"

Treville froze, taken aback by the Queen's outburst. She was breathing heavily, her was face flushed and tears glinted in the corners of her flashing eyes. 

She had acted out of fear.

This fear had caused Richelieu to be taken. It was why Treville had been forced to watch Richelieu waste away; the reason he had grieved for him, buried him, ignorant of the fact that his suffering had only begun. Treville remembered the sight of Richelieu in his cell – collared, stripped and bruised. He would never forget the feeling of Richelieu trembling in his arms, so relieved to be saved.

Treville knew fear well. The fear of losing Richelieu a second time had made him distrust his men. It had made him betray himself to Athos. It had made him almost murder Vargas in cold blood.

But knowing fear didn't make Treville more sympathetic to Anne. To learn that she hadn't meant for Richelieu to be abducted and tortured was no comfort. All her regret would have meant nothing if Richelieu had been killed. All her regret meant little now, after Richelieu had been flogged, beaten, and mutilated. He had been imprisoned in that hellhole for months, huddling by a brazier on the hard stone floor as his scars ached.

Treville blinked away tears as he looked around the room, anywhere but at the Queen. Her sitting room appeared so mundane in the light of the secrets that had been revealed within it.

Taking a deep breath, Anne started fumbling with her handkerchief again. "You must understand – Philip did this without my knowledge. How should I have known he would do something like this?"

Treville's gaze hardened. Even if she hadn't meant for it to happen, she was the reason Richelieu had been locked up in a cell for months, away from all that mattered to him, while his empire had been slowly dismantled. She was the reason for Richelieu's suffering and humiliation, for all the scars and bruises – for the way he jumped at shadows and curled up at night. Fear dwelled in him now. Not a fear of political plots and assassins, but the deep, intimate fear of someone who realised how his defences could be stripped away; of how no intellect, no amount of influence or power, was a shield against what a man unafraid of brute violence could do to another.

Whether she had intended it or not, that fear had been put there at Queen Anne's behest.

"It's what Kings do," Treville said. _Or their ministers._

Anne's eyes widened. "If Philip had told me what he was about to do, I might have dissuaded him!"

 _And continued to live in fear for herself and her son?_ Treville shook his head, unsure what to think. But even as he felt the earth shift beneath his feet, he knew he had to keep his composure.

"King Philip wants to see a Habsburg King on every throne in Europe. Not a Bourbon, even if he is his brother-in-law." He halted, struck by a terrible thought. "You haven't told him your son isn't a Bourbon?"

"No!"

Treville exhaled in relief. "At least he won't be able to use that against us."

"The Dauphin is his nephew—" but she faltered, finally realising her own naivety. King Philip played the game like a master.

Walking over to a chair, Anne sat down. "The Cardinal suffered much because of my decision."

 _You don't know how much._ Treville closed his eyes.

"Even had you written to your brother again, there's no guarantee you would have stopped him. Taking Richelieu out of the picture would have seemed a good idea to him, regardless of any danger to you."

Anne lowered her gaze, dejected. "And then he sent Rochefort to kill Louis."

Perhaps she would finally stop writing her letters – or keep the content to apolitical matters.

"The Dauphin is the King's heir," Treville said slowly, forcing himself to look the Queen in the eyes. She had turned as pale as a corpse – or a Cardinal in a dungeon. "To claim anything different, particularly at a time of war, would be madness. The Cardinal needs your son."

A bitter expression distorted her features. "He needs my son, but what about me?" 

"I don't know." It wasn't what Anne needed to hear in her fright, but it was the truth. "Only the Cardinal can tell you that," Treville said. 

"You mustn't tell him!" Anne looked at him with determination, but Treville hesitated. Unwittingly or not, she had prompted Richelieu's abduction through her carelessness, and now she was asking him to lie about it.

"Treville!"

He met her gaze, frowning. "I believe he already suspects you."

Anne straightened her spine, perhaps to stop herself from collapsing into her chair. Treville could see her swallow, her eyes bright with fresh tears.

"Please, fetch the Cardinal. Quickly. Before I change my mind."

  


* * *

  


When Treville re-joined them, he found King and Cardinal sitting by the fireplace, looking relaxed – even though dried tears glittered on Louis' cheeks and Treville thought that Richelieu still seemed a little pale. What he was about to tell him wouldn't help him regain his colour.

"Treville!" Louis called. "Does the council cry for my attention again?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, remembering the message he had meant to deliver before Anne had summoned him. "The council is hoping you will honour them with your presence at the earliest opportunity." Although in truth they cried less for his attention than his signature. Sometime during Treville's absence the reclaiming of Corbie had been reduced to formalities.

"If they insist." Louis sighed dramatically. "I want both of you to sit in on my next council, but first, I'll take a moment to change and refresh." 

Minister and Cardinal bowed and Treville couldn't help but be relieved at Louis' quick departure. Richelieu took a step to follow him outside at a respectful distance – there was no reason to remain in the King's study without the King – but Treville caught his hand. 

"Armand—" He didn't quite know how to start but was aware that every moment he kept silent added to Richelieu's worry.

"The Queen wants to see you," he said eventually, caressing Richelieu's hand.

Richelieu pulled away, his face hardening into one of the many masks he used to wear at Court. Treville hadn't seen this one since Marie's return. "Did she state a reason?"

Treville shut his eyes briefly to collect himself. "She asked me not tell you, but—" he hesitated. Was he truly about to betray the Queen and add to Richelieu's sorrows? 

Yes.

_Yes._

Richelieu deserved to know why he had suffered.

"She realised you knew about the Dauphin's parentage. She may have put the idea into her brother's head to remove you from Court."

Just for the blink of an eye, Richelieu's façade wavered, his shoulders sagged. A moment later he raised his chin, his spine stiffening with steel.

Treville wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but at the same time, he feared the answer.

"And if I come to her now," Richelieu asked, "will she have me arrested?"

_Could she?_

"She appeared worried about whether you'll use your influence with the King to expose her treason."

A cruel smile tugged at Richelieu's lips. "Which one?"

Treville averted his gaze. "Either." They were all traitors here.

Richelieu stood straight, raising his chin as he turned to face the door. "Lead the way."

"What is going to happen now?" Treville asked as they left they study.

"I believe we will find out after this conversation."

"I'm sorry."

Richelieu's mask vanished. " _You_ have nothing to be sorry for."

Treville wanted to reach out to him – both to reassure Richelieu of his support and to take comfort about a decision made that couldn't be taken back – but out here in the corridor it was impossible, and soon they reached the Queen's quarters. Her apartments were less guarded, less frequented by servants and nobles than the King's, but her companions and servants were still want to gossip about any careless display of affection.

Anne was sitting down when they were admitted into her presence. This time there were no ladies or servants to be seen.

"Minister." She stood up as they bowed, appearing much more composed than when Treville had left her. No fresh tears glinted in her eyes. "Cardinal, how are you feeling?" she asked softly.

"Well, considering the circumstances." 

Anne bit her lip and behind his stone-faced expression Richelieu's eyes flashed. "Are you aware that the King asked me to be his First Minister again? Naturally, I accepted."

 _First Minister._ Although Treville hadn't ever actively doubted that this would happen, he still felt relieved. As he turned to look at Richelieu, he almost missed Anne briefly averting her gaze – _annoyed? Or afraid?_

"Are you certain you're up to the task?" she asked. "My husband shouldn't be asking so much of you, after such an ordeal."

 _An ordeal she had carelessly caused to happen_. Treville fought to keep his face impassive. She was his Queen, she had made a mistake – he had forgiven Richelieu for attempting to kill her; learned of his reasons, accepted his remorse. Surely Treville could do the same for her — he had to – someday. 

_She was his Queen._ And a traitor.

"I don't presume to guess what you suffered, but considering your injuries—" she faltered, noticeably trying to avoid looking at his stiff fingers. Richelieu folded them in front of him – those fingers that would fold – and watched her mask crack. She took a few steps towards the window as an excuse to avert her gaze. 

"Perhaps you would be better served asking my husband to be released?" she continued with a small smile. "Knowing how much the King values you, I'm certain he will grant you a sizeable pension."

Treville had trouble keeping his face under control. _Was she trying to buy Richelieu off?_ Of course, despite her guilt, the Queen couldn't enjoy the thought of her would-be-assassin returning to power, but this out-of-the-blue diversion hinted at something deeper. She couldn't expect it to work on Richelieu. It wouldn't. Richelieu had been tired these past two days, skittish, doubting, but he had enjoyed manipulating the Governor and assisting Treville in his negotiations. Treville shot him another glance, but the Cardinal had already put on another one of his customary neutral expression – the one that came to him so naturally when he bargained with particularly persisting courtiers and diplomats. 

At least Vargas hadn't taken _this_ from him.

"The Cardinal helped me with the negotiations in Amiens," Treville said. If Anne was surprised that he was supporting Richelieu, she didn't show it.

"I will serve your husband as diligently as before," Richelieu said, causing Treville to expel the breath he had been holding. He imagined he saw disappointment flash in the Queen's eyes. 

"Do you know how it happened?" she asked, seeking Richelieu's eyes. "How the abduction was planned? There might be measures we can take to prevent a repeat."

"We know that Vargas' men bribed my chief physician," Richelieu began, "but it's clear that someone else was involved, quite possibly someone from the royal Court, who put the idea to act in Vargas' head – or King Philip's."

Anne shot a look at Treville, less angry than surprised.

"My brother? Are you certain?" A slight tremor shook the Queen's voice.

"Most certain, your Majesty," Richelieu said. "It is a sin to boast, but my fate has always been of great interest to the Spanish crown, therefore I believe it unlikely that an operation as crucial as this would take place entirely without the King's knowledge."

Not being a spymaster, and having deliberately stayed away from Richelieu's more clandestine dealings as much as possible, Treville had no idea whether Richelieu was lying in this case, but – Louis had known about Savoy. Louis had ordered Richelieu's predecessor assassinated when he had been barely of-age in order to claim his throne. Louis had banished his own mother to be free.

_'It's what Kings do.'_

"Whoever else was involved my abduction, they likely possess high standing in both Courts, your Majesty. This narrows the field somewhat," Richelieu concluded.

The Queen gathered her hands in her lap, not looking up as she spoke. "We're at war with Spain now. It seems doubtful that they would risk harming France again in such a detestable way at a time like this."

"Harm, your Majesty?" Richelieu lifted his stiff fingers to his face in thought and Anne looked away, staring at her knees for a moment. Despite what she had done, seeing her fold like this disturbed Treville. She was still his Queen, and he couldn't help but be impressed at the way she had kept up this game of veiled words despite her distress.

"When Louis first proposed war after Rochefort's treachery was uncovered," the Queen began without looking up, "I decided to support every option that would advance and protect this country." 

"Your dedication to France is not in doubt, your Majesty."

"Isn't it?" Anne drew herself up, once more the Queen who had stared down her would-be assassin. "I made this decision even though it meant supporting a war against the country of my birth. I am no fool. I know what you can do for France."

She paused, looking up at Richelieu defiantly. She stood before him without armour, unprotected. No King's love shielded her and now that their relationship finally lay in shambles she could no longer be certain of winning if Louis was made to decide between his Queen and his First Minister.

"You may smirk at me, Cardinal" – and Richelieu did – "But I can admit a simple truth. Rochefort nearly destroyed the alliance with Sweden you had arranged. His manipulations could have spelled ruin for this country if they had been left unchecked any longer." Her eyes narrowed unhappily. "The council hasn't guided this country as well without you."

Richelieu bowed his head. "I live to serve."

"I believe you now," she said, her gaze soft once more. "I made a rash decision. All I ask is that my son, and France, won't have to pay for it."

Richelieu stood still for a moment, his stony expression betraying no emotion. Treville watched with bated breath.

"Your Majesty, France is as safe as your son."

Treville exhaled. A look of determination returned to the Queen's eyes. "And I?"

"I am told Louis has turned cold towards you and that he watches over your son jealously."

"That is no secret." Anne's eyes narrowed, dark with pain.

"Fortunately," Richelieu said, smirking, "my influence with the King appears to be greater than you could possibly imagine." Treville sighed; the Queen smiled bitterly.

"If this is to be my penance—"

"We're both traitors," Richelieu interrupted. "But I believe a Queen should have a hand in raising her son."

The Queen pursed her lips. "Perhaps Philip will receive another letter – warning him about the consequences of ever acting so rashly again."

"Sending such a letter would be a wise decision, that I'm sure could win the sender many sympathies."

Anne looked him in the eyes. "Losing an enemy would be enough." 

Richelieu smiled.

Looking wearier than when they had entered, Anne returned to her chair. Although she remained standing, it was clear that the audience was nearing its end.

Richelieu cleared his throat. "I'm beginning to feel fatigued from our journey," he said, even though during the conversation he had regained some colour for the first time since arriving in Corbie. "If her Majesty permits, I will retreat."

The Queen nodded; the fight had gone out of her. "Please do."

Treville bowed dutifully, eager to be away, to gain a chance to order his thoughts – but Richelieu hesitated. "A final word, your Majesty."

She looked at him reluctantly, tired. "If you must."

"I don't think you're a fool," Richelieu said, "but I allow me to remind you that confession and repentance are only the first steps on the path to absolution."

"Are you telling me this as a Cardinal?" 

"I speak out of concern, as a Cardinal, and from personal experience," he said. "It's cold in Hell, your Majesty. Particularly in the lower reaches."

The Queen didn't reply, and as they turned to leave, she wouldn't even allow Treville to catch her eye.

  


* * *

  


"Is this it?" Treville asked as they walked away from the Queen's apartments. "The end of the affair?"

"What else could there be?" 

Treville sighed, struggling for words. 

With Vargas dead, and Richelieu's reluctance to actively move against Raveau or the Queen there was no more revenge to be had. Of course, Treville hadn't expected Richelieu to openly call for Anne's blood, as, after all, she was still Queen, but he hadn't imagined the borders would be redrawn so quickly – and without the presence of notaries or much gloating. 

Treville had expected a greater hunger in Richelieu for retribution, not what was, despite the veiled warnings, an offer of peace. And what about the Queen? 

The Queen had ordered Richelieu's _removal._

She had appeared genuinely repentant, but who knew what it took to frighten her enough to write to her brother again?

Just for a brief moment, Treville wished Richelieu hadn't accepted the post of First Minister again. 

_Damn them both!_

"Do you think she believes you? That she's safe?" _And did you mean it?_

Richelieu stopped abruptly, making Treville come to a halt as well, before looking up and down the hall. Finding that they were alone, he gently pulled Treville into the nearest alcove. Safe in the shadows, his weary expression gave lie to the cool and collected act he had put up in front of the Queen. Treville longed to embrace him, feeling drained after what he'd heard in the Queen's apartments, but even in a deserted hallway he didn't dare. Listening to the Queen's confession had been a stark reminder of what they stood to lose over a moment's carelessness.

Anne's fear of being made to pay dearly for the comfort of a lover's embrace was no stranger to Treville. While his affair with Richelieu couldn't result in treason, the consequences of either affair coming to light would be as fatal for either couple. To trust anyone with a secret like this meant putting one's life in their hands. 

The Queen had not been prepared to put hers in the hands of the man who had plotted her murder, and who could have had her removed from power, incarcerated and executed at any moment by revealing her affair.

Understanding her fear did not make Treville stop resenting what her act of desperation had done to Richelieu.

Said Cardinal tugged at Treville's wrist to gain his attention. 

"Attempting to get rid of me again does her no favours," Richelieu began softly. "She has lost what power she thought she would secure through the birth of the Dauphin. Since she failed to gain allies at Court during my absence, not even her status as the future King's mother is of no use to her."

"That doesn't mean it never will."

"She is a proud woman who believed herself above Court intrigue for too long. The old nobility detests her for it and the noblesse de robe doesn't understand her. She is a pariah at her own Court." Richelieu's expression turned thoughtful. "I believe she will swallow her pride eventually, for her son. In the meantime, she is well aware that removing me from Court won't ingratiate her to the King. He did not turn to her when he believed me dead once, and he is no more likely to do so should I disappear again." 

Treville frowned. "So you're not afraid she'll make another attempt?"

"Are you?"

Treville lowered his eyes. He believed that Anne hadn't wanted this outcome. It was Vargas who had guided the knife and held the whip. Anne had miscalculated, to her own detriment, by banishing the man who could have mended her relationship with the King, only for him to be replaced by someone like Rochefort.

He had long since accepted that obeying his King would require him to make choices that endangered the lives of his men, but the idea that he should be asked to sacrifice Richelieu on a mere whim such as the one the Queen had come to regret still required getting used to.

Treville had risked his life and reputation to bring him back. He had risked the love and trust of his men. The fact that Treville had returned to Richelieu, given him another chance after the plot behind the Queen's assassination had been uncovered, should have made something clear to him long before – there were things he would give up everything for not to sacrifice.

The realisation sent a chill down his spine.

"Jean." Richelieu cupped his face briefly, making him look up. 

How he had missed these simple gestures.

"The Queen needs more allies, not another enemy."

"Are you truly fine with this arrangement? I'm not asking if you believe this is the best you can do for France, but how do _you_ feel about it?" Treville frowned. "You lost so much, and you want no revenge?"

Richelieu's expression softened. "I won my life back," he began. "My palace." Richelieu picked up Treville's hand again, stroking the insides of his wrist. He didn't say it, but the words were written clear on his face. _And you._

"Vargas could have killed me at any time. He chose to keep me alive for his own purposes. Now he's dead, and I live. I returned to the King's side while the Queen suffers in disfavour, reliant on the power and influence of others. There is nothing more for me to gain from vengeance."

"She doesn't like you. Even if you reconcile her with the King, she won't like your politics."

"She won't be able to afford not to like them for a long, long time. Perhaps long enough to understand them."

Treville hesitated. He wanted to believe that it was over, that a sense of normalcy would return to the Louvre with Richelieu back at the helm of state, but he couldn't forget how easily he'd been duped. A few days ago he'd still believed that Richelieu was dead. Now that they were reunited he couldn't stop himself from looking for the hook. 

"So this is the end of the matter?" he asked.

A thoughtful look crossed Richelieu's face. "I am not much of an optimist, but in this case—" He licked his lips. "Without someone to speak in her support the Queen will have very little say in the upbringing of her son. She might even be prevented from seeing him if her relationship with Louis deteriorates further. Now that the King appears to be more attached to me than ever before, I am the Queen's best chance at conciliating with her husband – something that is in my interest as well."

"Is it truly?"

"I told you that having her exiled or killed would mean chaos, particularly without another prospective Queen on the horizon." He paused. "I believe she and I have arrived at a truce."

Judging by their history, this truce wouldn't be an easy one. But although Treville didn't look forward to being forced to mediate between them, it was far more welcome than the alternative of being forced to choose between the Queen he was sworn to serve and the lover he hoped to protect. 

Something had shifted, and lines had been drawn. Time – and careful negotiation – would determine how the rest of the Court adapted to this change as Queen and Cardinal settled into their new roles, and – perhaps – a more cooperative relationship. 

Treville took Richelieu's hands in his, feeling the stiff fingers, the space where a finger should be. Richelieu watched him, his eyes looking dark in the shaded alcove.

"I'm her Minister, too," Treville began. "And I won't abandon the King while we're at war. But if either of them asks me to take action against you, I don't think my loyalty will stand the test."

Richelieu's eyes widened. "You would rebel against your King? Treville the faithful?"

Treville smiled bitterly. "I might resign."

"You think the King would let you?"

Treville opened his mouth, then closed it again, not knowing what to say. He thought of the exile he had dreamt up for himself while Louis had held him in disgrace; keeping the family estate for his nieces and nephews – alone, away from Court and Paris and everything in it that he had won, that he held dear. 

Maybe not entirely alone. He thought of Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan – even Aramis – and the repeated displays of loyalty and affection from his musketeers. 

He looked at Armand; gaunt, but less pale now then he had been, looking curious. 

There were worse fates than to be forgotten by Paris. Treville knew that now.

"I only have to make him angry enough."

Richelieu licked his lips. "That's not the way a Minister should think."

"You threaten to resign all the time; whenever Louis is about to force you to accept a bad decision."

"He'd be missing you before long."

"Probably. With you, he usually relents before things go that far."

Richelieu smiled. "I'm starting to think your trading partners in Amiens weren't the only ones who underestimated you."

Treville would have returned the smile, but the ground felt too unsteady, as though something besides the nature of the power games between the Cardinal and Queen had shifted.

"So what now?" Treville asked as they stepped back out into the hall, daring to breathe freely.

"I was considering sending letters to enquire after my former officers and staff, but I can't do that without my seal. I have time now to go to confession, but provincial priests are too chatty. Thus I believe the proper course is to enjoy doing nothing until the King is ready to join the city council."

"Nothing?"

Treville frowned. _Enjoyment_ and _doing nothing_ used to be mutually exclusive in Richelieu's mind. Perhaps he would instead like some insight into the files the clerks had to have amassed over the last week. Or to inspect the troops. Or—

A smiled played about Richelieu's lips. "Nothing," he repeated. "And I should like you to keep me company."

Treville couldn't think of anything he'd rather do.

  


* * *

  


The Palais Cardinal was as empty as the one the black horse had shown him in his dreams. One difference was that some of the furniture had been covered to protect it from dust – like the halls in Raveau's chateau. Richelieu banished the thought. The chateau was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about.

The other difference was that Treville was by his side.

"It shouldn't take them too long to clean up," Treville said as their footsteps echoed through abandoned hallways. 

The Palais would soon be the kingdom's true centre of power again. As soon as word of his return had spread, some of Richelieu's people had come forward, wishing to return into his employ, among them former Red Guards stationed in Corbie. As it would still be a couple of days before they could be released from their present employment to move into their old quarters, Richelieu would stay at the Louvre waiting for his Palais to be made habitable again. 

He had returned sooner than that for a visit, to quench his curiosity, and if not for Treville's steady footfall at his side, he would have thought he was walking through a dream. Even the garden had looked as neat and cared for as he had dreamed it – and, as they stepped into his bedroom, he saw that his deathbed looked just as untouched. 

Eight months since Richelieu had last lain in that bed. _Eight long months._

Richelieu felt Treville's fingers brush over the back of his hand and encircled them with his own. 

"I almost regret you had to kill Vargas. I wouldn't have minded seeing him executed."

Richelieu frowned. "You realise I caused something similar to happen to Rochefort?"

Treville stared at him for a long moment, before grabbing his hand and making Richelieu face him. "You're not Rochefort, and I'm very grateful for it." 

"I should hope so," Richelieu said, not holding back on the sarcasm.

Treville shot an annoyed look at the ceiling in frustration. "He was dangerous. You're—" 

Richelieu cocked an eyebrow at him. "I'm _not_?"

His own naïveté must have struck Treville as soon as the words had left his mouth since he hesitated to finish, looking down, as he always did to try and hide his embarrassment. 

"Not to the King," he said. "Not to France. Not to me."

The ache of the bones that Labarge had broken told a different story. As did the faint scar under Treville's eye where Aramis had punched him for leading the Duke of Savoy to his men at the Cardinal's request. 

"I believe the Queen and your musketeers would disagree."

"I don't care. Besides, the Queen is safer for your support than she was before – certainly while Rochefort was still around." 

"A high compliment." Sometimes, rarely, Richelieu wondered that Treville still put up with him.

"You had reasons for what you did," Treville said, his blue eyes shining with fervor.

"So did Vargas."

Treville rubbed his face. "I still don't care."

"What about your honour and sense of justice?" Richelieu asked, struggling to hide his smile.

"I've tolerated worse; done worse," Treville said. "I have no excuses. I know who you are and I still want you here. I don't care for the reasons anyone could bring up to condemn me for it."

_So you can understand, that love is the seed of each virtue in you, and its errors the seeds of every action that deserves punishment. 1_

Richelieu realised that he'd gone quiet, staring at his deathbed again, only when Treville spoke up. "I'll head back to the palace if you want some time to yourself." 

Richelieu sighed deeply. Eight long months he had had to himself and his thoughts – more or less. 

It was clear from his face that Treville didn't want to leave, and Richelieu didn't want him to go. He was tired of being reminded of his prison, of imagining bars and shackles. He'd had his fill of jumping at shadows, of the King asking whether he was well, of courtiers remarking on his paleness. Richelieu was tired of being made to feel like a man made of glass.

In the few days since his return to Paris another of Louis' cousins had been promised to a relative of the Swedish King. The Queen had accepted his intercession and the King had down sat down with her for a brief but amicable talk at his First Minister's request. After a near fallout over the claiming of a conquered fortress, Prince Gaston had been put back in his place by a sharply worded letter from his hand. These were the things Richelieu wanted to remember, that made him _feel_ that he was back where he belonged.

And, of course, there was Treville, looking at him with the deep hunger of the condemned staring up towards the heavens, but ready to retreat at his word. Treville, who knew him in his darkness and had still risked everything to find him.

They were reunited now, alone in the slowly reviving centre of his power. 

Taking his hand, Richelieu gently pulled Treville towards the bed he had died in. Time to return some life to it. 

"I promise you," he said, "I'll tell you exactly what I want."

  


* * *

  


1 Dante, Purgatorio, Canto XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it. It's over. Thank you for sticking with me till the end! 
> 
> (and a big thank you, again, to my beta, theonenamedafterahat. This fic wouldn't be here without her.)


End file.
